To Love Fate
by Donatien Valiarde
Summary: 'Even if you end up as the world's enemy, I'll be your knight.' Squall x Rinoa, Post-Game.
1. Chapter I

**Disclaimer: **I obviously don't own Final Fantasy VIII, its characters, or its story. However, this piece of fanfiction is my work.

**Author's Notes at the end. **

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><p><strong>To Love Fate<strong>

"_What if some day or night a demon were to steal after you into your loneliest loneliness and say to you: 'This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more' ... Would you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse the demon who spoke thus? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment when you would have answered him: 'You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine'?"_

-**Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science**

"_I don't want the future. I want the present to stand still."_

**-Rinoa to Squall, on the Ragnarok**

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><p><strong>Chapter I<strong>

By mid-morning, the crowd had already existed as a dull, ceaseless drone somewhere in the corners of his consciousness. Earlier that day, he and the others had finished their breakfasts in the hotel's ornate dining room with a rambunctious assembly of other foreigners. That was before the hum truly began. After that, they'd gone back to their rooms to prepare for the day—and that's when he first heard it, maybe. But it wasn't until he descended from the staircase into the front lobby shortly before noon that it finally broke into his awareness as a discernable sound.

Squall found the lobby strangely empty. Perhaps that was why he was hearing it now, he thought. Only an hour ago, the ground floor had been a chaos of backpacked sightseers and frenetic energy as flocks of Balambians, Trabians, and Dolletans jostled their way through rotating doors or waited in chattering hordes for the stragglers of their groups. Now it was motionless, the only sounds the murmurs from a single television perched over the concierge desk, a conversation between Rinoa and Quistis at the front, and the rumble that persisted outside. Like a shelter from a raging storm.

He waited with the two of them. Rinoa and Quistis talked in animated tones about something that Squall wasn't noticing as the newscasters gave their analyses of today's significance for the millionth time. A bored receptionist kept sullen vigil at her post behind the front counter. After a few minutes more, Selphie was next to amble down the antique hardwood staircase, her footsteps noiseless on wine-red runners that led down the stairs. Soon, Zell; at last, Irvine. Then the six of them moved through the glass rotating doors and out into the din.

Only then did Squall appreciate the magnitude of that sound, the roar of a fathomless multitude. It was as if every citizen of Timber had poured into the middle of the capital city for this day, joined by countless foreign visitors that had arrived to take part in the making of history. The rally in Deling last year, when the Galbadians had embraced a tyrant for their ruler, came nowhere close in comparison. This was something different.

Already it was nearly impossible to move. People loitered or shoved, claiming stationary spots at the curb or struggling to join the dragging current that coursed through the city. Though many streets were closed, overtaken by the raucous masses, the main thoroughfare on which the hotel was situated had been blocked off for the parade that would follow the official announcement. The sidewalks, meanwhile, were impenetrable walls of people.

"This way," Rinoa called out, only barely audible above the crowd, turning back long enough to give them a quick wave before pushing through the throng. After nearly half an hour of weaving, elbowing, and being elbowed in return, she brought them to a stop in one of the main squares at the heart of the capital, where immense screens had been fixed across the sides of three buildings. A handful of young Timberese had climbed onto a bronze statue in the center of the square, perching atop the warhorse or pedestal, grabbing onto the mounted general's arms and legs for balance.

Above the heads of the crowd, innumerable flags snapped in the brisk autumn wind. They flew from a thousand windows, from newly-erected poles, from the upraised hands of celebrating Timberese: a silver stag on a field of hunter green. But the expanse of green and silver was broken here and there by rippling banners bearing other symbols—great black oak trees with bare, towering branches; red foxes; bears with open jaws; the coat of arms of the long-defunct Timber royal family. Each represented a separate Timberese faction or resistance movement as every man, woman, and child of Timber proclaimed their national identity for the first time in eighteen years.

Yet the six people who had really made this day possible carried nothing that would distinguish them. They were as average and as inconspicuous as anyone else in the crowd. When the transitional government had invited them to appear as guests of honor, Squall had politely declined on behalf of them all. Even so, the interim president had insisted on paying for their travel and setting them up in the finest hotel in the city. That had been more than Squall had wanted to accept, but refusing a second time was not an option.

As he took in his surroundings, Squall was surprised that they had gotten as far into the square as they had. In every direction, as far as he could see, were people. More pressed into the tumult with each passing minute, until no glimpse of the ground could be seen. Beyond the sea of dark green flags and signs with political slogans, the overcast sky was a solid, pale, chilly gray.

Rinoa, just in front of him, was standing on the tips of her toes to scan the breadth of the crowd crammed into the square. She was smiling, her cheeks flushed from the bite of Timber's fall wind and from the exhilaration of the occasion. After a moment, she dropped back to her heels and leaned over close to say something to Selphie, who grinned and nodded in agreement.

Squall shifted between eyeing the crowd, glancing at the static on the screen, and watching her. He wondered how she was feeling then. Rinoa had fought for this, risking life and limb for a political cause that she had somehow adopted although it was not her own; she had brought the rest of them into it, too. He could guess that she felt as much a part of Timber as one of the hundreds of thousands of liberated citizens that surrounded her. Today, she was Timberese.

As for himself, Squall didn't know how he felt. In fact, he wasn't sure he felt much of anything, except maybe some vague sense of irony.

As Rinoa surveyed the scene again, her gaze caught his accidentally. Then she smiled a different sort of smile.

Squall had only a moment to consider her before the screen's garbled image cleared to reveal a crisp, dignified set, an empty podium next to a banner displaying the stag of Timber. All eyes turned to the picture as a cheer rose from the boundless crowd. The sound swelled, thundering off the walls of the buildings, until the interim president walked onto the screen and took the podium. There was an eager hush. It was the first time that Timber's television station had been in use since the incident there last year.

After a few moments—as if he knew to wait for the crowd to quiet—the president began to speak. He talked at some length of the virtues of a republic, of the proud and indomitable spirit of the people of Timber, of the beauty of their country, of personal liberty and freedom from tyranny. He never condemned their occupiers, but condemned occupation on principle. He thanked the people that had made it possible—the sacrifices of the resistance, the loyalty of their allies, and the aid of others that he didn't specify by name. He gave his sympathy and gratitude for the lives lost in pursuit of liberation. Periodic applause and cheers punctuated the speech. At last, he reached the words that everyone was waiting to hear: "On this day, after eighteen years of occupation, the people of Timber declare their independence."

The roar that followed was crushing. The president's lips continued moving before he stepped off and out of sight, but the boom of the horde swallowed his closing words. The screen went back to static. Banners whipped wildly, upheld arms waved, people jumped and hugged each other and cried. Selphie had linked arms with Rinoa, and they and Quistis were sharing in some enthusiastic banter Squall couldn't hope to hear.

Rinoa looked back at him, only a glimpse, and her smile changed as it had before. It was a sort of smile she gave only him.

* * *

><p>"Guess we'll be splitting off into parties and quarrelling over politics and members of parliament instead of resistance tactics, eh?" Rinoa heard the speaker guffaw. He was talking loudly over his beer as the group around him laughed and jeered in accord. There was other loud laughter around the room: from the bar, from a corner where Quistis and Irvine were sitting and trading stories with a few Owls and Foxes, from the billiards table where a lively game was underway.<p>

Rinoa was standing in a cluster with Selphie, Zell, Zone, Watts, and a few others with whom she was only informally acquainted, listening to a Fox tell a grim story about a friend that had been imprisoned and executed in the early years of the occupation. But she was only half-listening. She was busy eavesdropping on other conversations, nursing a glass of wine, and sorting through her own thoughts.

Following the official announcement had been parades, concerts, and more speeches by foreign dignitaries that had congratulated Timber and lauded the victory of democracy, self-determination, and sovereignty. Although Squall had been invited to speak, he had declined that offer just as he had declined the six of them being honored guests before he'd even told them that there'd been an invitation. For the evening, however, they had joined the members of the Forest Owls, Forest Fox, and a scattered collection of other resistance supporters in a traditional Timberese pub. The leaders of Forest Fox had rented out the establishment for the evening to share the occasion with their resistance comrades and liberators.

The pub was rustic and intimate. A fire glowed in its hearth at the back wall. The floors creaked, worn down by over two centuries' worth of stumbling, rowdy patrons. The wood paneling of the walls and bar—which had no doubt been built out of the surrounding forests—had likely once been burnished and clean, but had since sagged, stained, and dulled. The whole place smelled like pipe smoke, musty age, coal, and beer. But the wear gave it character. It reminded Rinoa of the people of Timber themselves: tough, resilient, and jaunty, if maybe a bit coarse. It had seen a lot, been through a lot, but remained warm and welcoming through it all.

Rinoa was taking a slow sip of wine and staring off at the billiards game when she felt someone nudge her side. The Fox's story, she realized, had come to a conclusion, and Zone was trying to draw her back into the conversation. It must have been of a more cheerful nature, since the others were chuckling at something Zell was saying.

"Hmm?" Rinoa quickly lowered the wine glass from her lips.

"Zell's telling everyone about the day they got their assignment with us," Zone explained with a grin. He had lowered his voice to keep from interrupting, but his speech was heavier than normal, and maybe a little too enthusiastic; and he was standing unnecessarily close. Rinoa noticed that he had nearly finished yet another half-liter of beer.

She had noticed something else about him, too, which she spotted again as Selphie was picking up the story. Throughout the entire evening, Zone had been watching Squall like a hawk. It had been subtle at first, a fleeting glance on occasion. She'd thought nothing of it then, convinced she'd only imagined it—she couldn't think of any reason for it otherwise. But the more Zone drank, the more blatant it became. She wondered if anyone else had observed his behavior, especially—she dreaded—Squall himself.

As Zell and Selphie continued with their account, Rinoa made sure that Zone was engrossed in their story before devoting a furtive glance to finding Squall herself. She had no trouble doing so. Squall was standing near Quistis and the group in front of the fire, as he had been for quite some time. Unlike most others, he had no drink in hand—he had accepted a single beer earlier and hadn't asked for anymore after that. He was on the outskirts of a conversation, apart but not excluded from it, and was wearing a look of patient disinterest. Quistis would say something to him every now and then, or Irvine would try to drag him back into the discussion without success. Otherwise, the members of the group seemed to let him be.

Rinoa knew this was not something he enjoyed. And she couldn't help but feel responsible for dragging him here, even if the leader of Forest Fox, not Rinoa, had extended the invitation to all six of them.

The yarns of war, lighthearted arguments, and laughter continued into the evening. Rinoa drifted from one group to another, sharing experiences and reminiscing with her Forest Owl companions. And in that time, Zone seemed to follow her everywhere she went.

Not that she could really hold that against him—she had missed him and Watts, and was thrilled to be spending this time with her former comrades. But as the hours wore on, Zone's fawning, suffocating proximity started to wear on her nerves, especially as he drank more. Rinoa couldn't really help her aggravation.

Like a stray dog desperate for a master, Zone was a doting companion eternally at her heels. He laughed loudest at all her jokes, finished her sentences as she told stories of her own, offered to get her something more to drink more times than she cared to count, dragged her from one group to the next. Finally, after he'd downed a countless number of drinks, Zone grew quieter and floated off to a different part of the pub.

For a while, Rinoa had the relief of spending time with other friends, without Zone hovering over her shoulder. But that did not last long.

She was absorbed in a billiards game with Selphie when a commotion rose from the back of the pub. Suddenly there were sounds of chairs falling and voices rising. Beer mugs clattered off tables and rolled away, spilling their contents to the floor. Rinoa looked up in time to see four or five people jump out of their seats at once, just as a voice howled, "You son of a bitch!"

Through the gaps in the wall that had formed around the uproar, Rinoa spotted Zone and Squall standing across from one another. Judging by the expression on Squall's face, he had about as much understanding of the situation as she did. Zone, on the other hand, was red-faced and seething. Rinoa had only just registered this when Zone reeled back and lashed out, swinging a punch as hard as he could muster at Squall.

Squall simply stepped aside and let Zone pitch into a table, sending glasses and plates shattering across the wooden floor. There was no question who would win a fight between them. Squall knew this, of course, and as Rinoa rushed to the back of the room, she could see a tell-tale expression of indecision on his face. She could guess what he must be thinking: let the drunken fool humiliate himself on his own, or fight back and end it quickly?

"Zone!" Rinoa called out, forcing her way into the pack.

Squall spun around at the sound of her voice. Zone was steadying himself against the table, but saw Squall's distraction and took it as an opportunity to launch a second attack. He aimed another blow that Squall immediately parried, and a moment later, Squall had Zone pressed down face-first against the table with both arms wrenched behind his back.

"Why don't you fight back you coward?" Zone shouted as he wrestled furiously against Squall's grip. Squall was putting forth very little effort to hold him, but started scanning the crowd in some degree of desperation for someone to relieve him of his captive and of the situation.

Rinoa and Watts were both there at once, splitting the two apart and forming a barrier between them—Rinoa with Squall, Watts with Zone. This set Zone off again. He barked to be let go and wrested himself free from Watts's hold. Watts stumbled back and fell to the floor. For an instant, Zone hesitated in front of them as if considering one last shot at Squall. Instead, he pivoted and barreled through the crowd and then out the door of the pub into the chill of night, his head down. The door rattled shut behind him.

There was a stretch of uncomfortable silence before the crowd began to dissolve. Rinoa looked up at Squall, whose perplexed expression hadn't changed much from before.

"What happened?"

Squall shrugged. "I don't know. I could hardly understand him, he was so drunk. He started railing on about what a bastard I am and how I hadn't kept a promise to him." The flatness of his voice made him sound entirely unimpressed. Rinoa never understood how he always managed to stay so calm, regardless of the situation. "He was looking for a fight, and when I wouldn't give him one, he started one anyway."

She was searching for a response when Irvine stepped beside them, flanked by the curious and concerned faces of Selphie, Zell, and Quistis.

"You all right, Squall?" He asked the question that all wanted to know.

"Fine."

They started prodding for an explanation when Rinoa realized that Watts was standing just behind her. She could see his embarrassment from the tense way he held his shoulders and his reluctance to meet her gaze.

"Umm, Rinoa…Maybe we should talk a minute," he said.

Rinoa looked back to be certain the others were still distracted, nodded, and followed Watts to an empty booth in a sparse corner towards the front of the pub. As she sat down, she watched as a couple of pub employees grudgingly converged on the scene to sweep up bits of glass and mop up spilled beer. Someone else was throwing pieces of wood onto the fading fire, and in moments, fresh orange flames chewed at the new logs, crackling in delight.

"Zone was pretty torn up when he heard about you, umm…Well, when you were still in a coma." Sitting across from her, Watts had his gaze on the table as he started to speak. "He was angry at Squall then, especially when Squall told us about you and what had happened while we were on the ship with the White SeeDs. I knew you'd be okay, and I kept trying to tell Zone so.

"Then when we heard about why you'd been in a coma…" There was a pause, and Watts shifted in his seat. He swallowed quickly. Now it was Rinoa's turn to look down at the table. "We were both really worried about you. But I knew you'd still be a—I mean, I knew you'd still be _good_, really, and I told Zone that he shouldn't be so upset or hold it against Squall. But Zone has been pretty down since you left, and it's been a long time since either of us have seen you, and a lot of things have changed, and…well, what I mean to say is…"

"It's all right, I understand," Rinoa answered before he could finish. Watts's shoulders relaxed somewhat, as if he were being released of the burden of explaining further.

With his broken details, Rinoa had pieced together what she should have recognized earlier and what Watts was so discomfited to admit on his friend's behalf. All of Zone's behavior that evening had pointed to it, but it had taken her until now to understand his jealousy of Squall. She felt ashamed for having failed to spot it and intervene sooner…Even if it _had_ been over a year since she had seen either him or Watts, Rinoa reminded herself.

"Please don't be angry with him, and please ask Squall not to be, too," Watts implored. "Today is important for all of us, but…it's also hard, in some ways." Rinoa understood what he meant. They had all made many sacrifices to reach this point, and it was impossible not to reflect on the losses of friends and loved ones even when celebrating an optimistic future.

"Of course I'm not angry, Watts, you know me better than that."

But even as she managed a reassuring smile and Watts grinned gratefully back, Rinoa couldn't help but note that in his explanation, Watts had omitted a particular word. In fact, she was hearing less and less of that word lately. People stumbled over it when it came up in conversation, like their tongues and lips could no longer form it. They blushed or looked away or cleared their throats or made up euphemisms or pretended it didn't exist. She wanted to forget it existed, herself. But Rinoa knew that it was whispered in corners, just out of earshot. The speakers just made sure she wasn't around to hear it.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rinoa saw Squall making a break for the door. He was moving as if he expected not to be noticed. Though she pretended to be fully absorbed in her conversation, she watched from her periphery as Squall slipped through the door.

She sighed and leaned back on the bench, still holding a smile and trying to seem as relaxed as possible. "I've really enjoyed this evening, but I think I'm going to go. It's been a busy day." Watts agreed, and said he was planning on leaving fairly soon, too.

"I'll be sure to come see you guys before we catch the train tomorrow," she added as they both rose from the booth and exchanged a quick hug. Rinoa said her goodbyes to him and a few others, thanked the leader of Forest Fox for the invitation, and gave Quistis a quick wave to indicate where she was going—all as hurriedly as possible whilst trying to appear as unhurried as possible.

Squall was down at the end of the block by the time she had pulled on her coat and stepped out into the clear, cold, late night air. She spotted him as he was passing under the foggy light of a street lamp, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket. Ignoring the handful of other people walking by, Rinoa called out for him to wait.

"I'm not going back, sorry," Squall said the moment she reached him.

Rinoa shrugged. "I wasn't planning on going back either."

That seemed to catch him by surprise, at least for an instant. Contrary to what Squall likely expected, she wasn't there to drag him back this time. Instead, Rinoa turned and started walking in the direction he'd been taking, at the same pace she guessed he'd had. Squall regarded her a moment longer before falling into step beside her.

There were still people out that night, despite the late hour. They roamed the streets simply because there was no curfew; they staggered out of bars, falling against one another and laughing; they hailed taxis on the way to other parties or gatherings. Glancing down a side-street, Rinoa saw a group of younger men standing around a fire—on closer look, she realized they were burning Galbadian flags. They were yelling in drunken outrage and spray painting anarchist lines onto a wall. She heard a bottle smash into brick, the tinkling of broken glass on pavement. They were a good distance away, but Rinoa found herself walking a little closer to Squall anyway.

For a while, they said nothing. And Rinoa was fine with that. Silence was something she was well accustomed to with Squall. They just walked, though where they were walking to, neither of them could say.

Ultimately, Squall was the one to speak first.

"So when did you meet Zone and Watts, anyway?"

The question appeared as a breath of mist from his lips. It did not linger in the air as it would have in winter, a solid white plume that would float up in front of them. In the briskness of autumn, it was gone as soon as it appeared, like something imagined. Rinoa could sense another question hidden within the one that he posed—more than that, even. A series of questions contained in one. Squall was probing into something for which, she thought, he already had an answer.

"When I was fifteen," she said. Then she sighed.

"My…father was still active in the Galbadian Army. When he came for an inspection of the Galbadian forces here, I wanted to go with him. I didn't really understand the political situation, but I wanted to see something besides Deling City, so I persuaded him to let me come. I couldn't be around him while he was working, though, so I spent the few days that we were here exploring the city."

"He let you do that?" Squall asked.

"No." She could see the corner of Squall's mouth twitch. "Anyway, I caught Watts trying to post fliers condemning the Galbadian troops when I was out one morning. When I asked him what he was doing, he was so apologetic and flustered…I promised I wouldn't tell anyone if he explained why he was doing it. That afternoon, he introduced me to Zone. I had never heard anything about the occupation from the Timberese perspective till I met them."

_And you were so taken in by the plight of Timber that at age sixteen you abandoned your father and home and set off to join the resistance movement? _Squall knew that part of the story. Though he didn't speak it, Rinoa could feel his judgment bearing down on her just as it had that day when she, Zone, and Watts had crouched on the floor of their train to formulate a new plan while their hired SeeDs stood over them, watching in disbelief. She knew what he thought of it: the childish fantasy world of a teenager rebelling against her father, a naive girl fighting a war though she had no idea what war was. If she didn't agree with him, Rinoa would be furious at him for asking the question in the first place. Instead, she was embarrassed.

She glanced up at him. Squall was looking straight ahead, and his expression gave away nothing. Perhaps she was wrong, she thought—just projecting her insecurities onto him.

"Zone and Watts's fathers had founded the group together," Rinoa continued, as if that might provide some justification. "They were publicly executed for their part in the resistance, to set an example for all the other resistance groups and for anyone else that may have been thinking of joining the movement. So Zone and Watts took over the group in their place. They were trying to rebuild when I met them."

When Squall didn't say anything, Rinoa decided to change the subject.

"…Anyway, I hear this isn't the first time you and Zone have…been at odds with one another." She smirked at his sidelong glance.

"He tried to threaten me when we ran into him and Watts last time," Squall said. "You were still unconscious—but I take it you've heard that story already."

"Only somewhat. You can keep going."

Squall looked annoyed.

"Before we left Timber, Zone told me that I wasn't to let anything happen to you. He seems to think that I made that a promise to him, because when we ran into him and Watts on the White SeeD ship, he threw a fit after I told him what had happened to you…Calling me a liar for not doing what he'd told me and so on. I guess now that he's heard a fuller account of what happened then and afterwards, he's even less pleased with the job I've done in honoring the promise he assumes I made to him. Seeing as how he tried to start a fight with me this evening and all."

Rinoa failed to stifle her laughter, which came out like a cough, something between amusement and disbelief. "You're so…" She paused, searching for the word she wanted. "—uncharitable."

"I guess that's a step up from _Meany,_ then, hmm? Or is it?"

Rinoa stared at him, incredulous. Part of her thought she should find his quip offensive, but she couldn't. She shoved him playfully. "You're also a real _jerk_."

That was enough to get an upturned corner on one side of Squall's mouth. Not a smile, not even a smirk, but still a trace of humor. There was only one time she had ever seen him really smile, just under two months ago, and she was beginning to have a hard time believing that it had ever happened. Sometimes Rinoa thought she'd dreamed it up. At any rate, she couldn't find it in herself to be angry at him at that moment.

"Don't hold it against Zone, okay? He and Watts are both good friends."

"I won't." That was all the assurance she needed.

Rinoa noticed that the area around them was darker, quieter. There was no yelling or tipsy prattle from partygoers, just the footsteps of another couple passing by them on the sidewalk.

They had reached one of the capital's many parks, sprawls of grass and trees that offered respite from the stone and steel and concrete of the city. The people of Timber liked to be outdoors, and the parks let them forget about industrial complexes, giving the illusion of isolated fields. As she and Squall turned onto the flagstone path that led into the park, Rinoa heard the dry crunch of fallen leaves under their feet. If the sky weren't overcast, the moon would have offered plenty of light, but tonight, there was only the muggy orange glow of occasional lamps to show the way. A few leaves glided off branches and past those lanterns, casting muted shadows before settling to the ground.

They were back to silence—but a comfortable silence. Both had their hands buried in the pockets of their coats, and when Rinoa's elbow brushed against Squall's arm, she realized how closely she was walking to him. There was no need for it. The path was wide, and they were the only people walking it at that hour. But Squall didn't seem to mind, and if he didn't mind, Rinoa most certainly didn't mind.

In the middle of the park was a fountain. Rinoa could hear it before they saw it, the cheerful gurgle of water that wafted to them on a breeze. The little court in which it sat had a lamp at each corner, aged gas-lanterns whose glowing flames had long since been replaced with electric bulbs. She knew this place—she'd been here many times when she was still living here, over a year ago.

"Do you know what this is?" Rinoa asked. She sat down on the edge of the fountain, and then looked up at him in expectation. Squall stood across from her, motionless. He had a way of standing like that—poised, official. Sometimes he'd shift his weight to one leg and hip, which made him look a little more relaxed. Often, when he stood that way, he would fold his arms across his chest; and when he did that, his head was almost always bowed to the side in concentration. Those times, she knew, were when Squall was lost to the world around him.

"No, I don't," he answered.

"It's an important historic landmark. The land here used to be a part of the royal estate. After the abdication of the royal family, the first Prime Minister of Timber funded the development of this place into a public recreation area so that the general populace could enjoy it themselves. He personally financed the fountain and dedicated it to the people of Timber. In return, they named it after him." Rinoa pointed to a bronze plaque on the rim of the fountain, near to where she was sitting.

"You sound like a tour guide," Squall said.

"Well, we're on a tour of the city, aren't we?"

Squall gave a half-shrug, an agreement.

Rinoa looked down into the black water, flickers of orange light leaping with the frantic ripples on the surface as the upper tiers spilled into the lowest pool. How many times she had walked through this park, sat by this fountain, considered this water. How long ago it seemed now, a memory belonging to someone else.

She fished into the inner pocket of her coat before standing and crossing the cobblestoned courtyard to where Squall stood. She handed him a piece of folded paper. Parchment paper, soft and creased from countless folding and unfolding, from wear and travel.

"…What is this?" Squall asked, looking between her and the paper in his hands. He started to unfold it.

"Our contract."

She gave him a moment to process what she meant. As soon as Squall had unfolded the paper, Rinoa could see understanding register on his features. He looked at her instead of reading the document.

"It expires today," she added.

Squall studied her, like he was searching for a hidden message he thought she was keeping from him.

"Timber's gained its independence," Rinoa explained. "So you, Selphie, and Zell are no longer bound by contract to work for me and the Forest Owls."

"Yeah. And?"

"So…The Garden is no longer obligated to me, at all. You're not even obligated to keep me around at Garden anymore."

Squall eyed her another moment, a long moment. He refolded the contract. "I doubt anyone even remembers this contract still existed," he said. "And the only person that is in any position to do anything about it is me. So what's your point?"

"No point, really." She managed a smile.

"Are you expecting we're going to kick you out of the Garden, or something?"

"…Well, no. At least, I hope not. Though I _am_ breaking a number of rules by being there, now that I don't have a contract to obligate Garden to keep me around. Not sure how the students feel about that."

Squall frowned. She heard him mutter something about it not mattering as he stuffed the contract into his own coat pocket. "Unless you want to keep it as a memento or something," he offered as an afterthought.

"No thanks."

She'd let him dispose of it on his own. It was a strange sense of closure on a part of her life now past, but there were other contracts in place between them that still took precedence.

* * *

><p>They woke the next morning to sly smiles and unconcealed snickers.<p>

The distant, muffled sound of a hairdryer roused Rinoa from her sleep. She sat up, rubbing her eyes, and pulled back the bedsheets. Mid-morning sun peeked into the dim room from the edges of the closed curtains. As she made her way down the short hallway, Rinoa spotted Quistis in front of the mirror that stood over the sink in the bathroom, running a brush through her long hair, the offending dryer perched at the edge of the counter.

Quistis spotted Rinoa's reflection in the mirror and turned to her with a small, teasing smile.

"'Morning," she said. Rinoa returned the greeting, her voice still groggy with sleep.

"Sleep well? You came in pretty late last night."

Rinoa grimaced. "It wasn't much later than the rest of you."

But that didn't really matter. They could have come in earlier than everyone else, or at the same time as them, and it wouldn't have mattered. She and Squall had been alone, and they would face teasing as long as that was the case.

Selphie, lounging in the common room of their shared suite, wanted to know what Rinoa and Squall had been doing out so late. She posed the question with the same sort of grin.

"Walking," Rinoa answered with an indifferent yawn. She imagined Squall wasn't faring much better in the suite with Zell and Irvine.

"Uh-huh," said Selphie.

While the others packed and had breakfast, Rinoa stuffed her belongings into a duffle bag, assured Selphie and Quistis that she would be back before checkout at noon, and slipped off into the city.

Normality had not returned to Timber's streets. Where there had been boundless masses the day before, now there were only a scant few people moseying along the sidewalks. Crumpled newspapers and plastic wrappers skirted past them in the breeze or were crushed noisily underfoot. Brown glass bottles rattled as they rolled on uneven pavement. A few cars slid by on reopened roadways; somewhere in the distance was a siren.

Today was an extension of the national holiday. Too many people were too exhausted or hung-over to return to routine. The city was quiet.

Rinoa followed a familiar path—streets well known to her though they were now no longer hers, though they hadn't been hers for over a year now. She crossed a bridge over the train tracks as a train clattered by, and a block later she was at the foot of an unattractive gray apartment building. Sloppy graffiti was painted across the door and along the walls. Rinoa pressed the doorbell and waited.

It took a while, but Zone was the one to finally answer. He looked tired, his eyes roaming at their feet instead of meeting hers. "Come on up," was all he said.

A few minutes later they stood across from each other in kitchen of the cramped apartment. Zone fidgeted ceaselessly, like he was trying to find something to do. Eventually he started opening cabinets.

"Watts just went out to get something for breakfast," he said, "Shouldn't take long—do you want some coffee?" He pulled out a tin of ground coffee and a stack of paper filters from one of the cabinets.

"Sure," Rinoa said, sinking into a chair at the table.

There were pockets of clutter throughout the room: old magazines in precarious stacks, yellowed newspaper clippings taped to the refrigerator, some tools in a corner that didn't belong in a kitchen. She and the others used to plan extravagant missions at this table before they moved their base to the train, sketching blueprints with the diatribes of resistance publications strewn over the table to spur them on. They would sit huddled together, arguing, pointing, erasing, redrawing—in retrospect, it was a wonder they were never overheard and reported to the soldiers by the building's other tenants.

At the counter, Zone was loudly making a pot of coffee, banging lids and utensils and drawers in what should have been a simple and painless process. Rinoa felt a surge of relief when the sound of the coffee drip finally signaled a return to peace. Zone pulled out three coffee mugs from an overhead cabinet as they waited. Then, after standing idly for a while, he seemed to realize that he had once again run out of things to do.

He finally gave up and took a seat at the table across from her.

"I—" he broke off. "I'm sorry."

Rinoa could see pink rising to his cheeks. He ran a nervous hand through his hair.

Rinoa answered at length with a soft, sad smile. "Watts explained things to me after you left last night."

Zone breathed a long sigh. "I was acting rashly. I-I know Squall's not a bad guy…I just want to make sure he takes care of you, is all." He looked up at her at last, searching for her reaction. Rinoa didn't know what to say.

She was saved by the chirp of the coffee maker, finishing its cycle. Zone pulled himself up from the table.

Jealousy, an affection for her—and there had something else, too, that had caused Zone to act as he had, Rinoa realized. Zone never had liked her first boyfriend during that summer after she'd turned sixteen, had never trusted the impetuous, overconfident Garden cadet. And the reason for his distrust had only been confirmed during the incident at the television station last year. It was no wonder he had been so wary of Squall afterwards, and no wonder he sought to hold Squall to a promise to take care of her.

Tendrils of steam drifted up from the mug he placed in front of her. Zone resumed his place across the table, taking a cautious sip of his coffee.

"Thank you," Rinoa said. "Not for the coffee—although thanks for that, too. I mean for looking out for me."

Zone looked over the rim of his coffee cup, a surprised flash of a glance.

"…Of course," he answered, his voice gentle, sheepish. "I know it's been a while, but you're still our princess."

Rinoa couldn't bring herself to tell him she didn't like being called that anymore.

They sat quietly for some time, sipping from their coffee.

"You've changed a lot, you know," Zone said. Now it was her turn to look at him in surprise, but she had only a moment to consider his remark as the sounds of a lock being unlatched, a door opening, and the rustling of paper bags reached the kitchen.

"Do you have any idea how hard it was to find a single open bakery this morning?" Rinoa heard Watts demand, followed by a cheerful stammer as he came into the kitchen. "Oh—hi Rinoa." He had an armload of fresh bread and a small bag stuffed full of pastries. He gave Rinoa a quick smile, then fixed Zone with a glower. "—I was nearly to the train station before I found one."

"Yeah, yeah, quit complaining about it," Zone replied. "At least you found one."

The two continued their light-hearted bickering as they set out breakfast and started eating. Rinoa found herself smiling, laughing as they ate together, so much like the time before. But she realized, as she watched the friendly quarreling that was still so familiar to her, that her two friends had changed, too. They both looked older, aged by the ordeals that they had faced and overcome; Rinoa remembered suddenly that they had both passed their twentieth birthdays during her time away. They were no longer teenagers making extravagant, impracticable plans to overthrow their oppressors—Zone and Watts were at the threshold of their adulthood in a changed society.

"You know, Rinoa," Zone said in the middle of the meal, "you don't have to leave today, necessarily. You could stay here the rest of the week. Longer, if you wanted, it's not like there isn't room. You don't have to go back to Balamb right away, right?"

"If I didn't already have a train ticket back to Balamb today, I would," she answered with a touch of regret. In truth, Rinoa was eager to return to Balamb; the ticket was a convenient excuse, the only legitimate one she could think up, though the government of Timber had paid for it, not her. She could tell Zone was disappointed—even if he didn't visibly show it—and she added, "But it isn't like I can't come back to visit. I'll need to come see what you two and the others are up to, after a while, once things settle down."

"We're going to hold you to that, then," Watts concluded with a grin. Zone gave a small smile and a nod in agreement.

Around eleven-thirty, after breakfast, two cups of coffee, and a short visit, Rinoa said her goodbyes and embraced both her friends, then was back on her way to the hotel. She hadn't gotten to ask Zone what he meant when he said she had changed, but she understood without an explanation. She _had_ changed.

A lot had changed in the course of a year.

At one o'clock, she, Squall, and the other four were in the SeeD cabin on a train that would take them back to Balamb.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

I have wanted to write a full-length post-game fanfiction for Final Fantasy VIII for a long time. And by a long time, I mean eight years at the minimum.

I wrote the first version of this chapter, the scene of Timber's Independence, about seven years ago, when I was still in high school—I have since graduated from college, if that gives you any idea of the span of time that has passed since then. I realized after writing it, though, that I had little idea of what I was doing, the direction that I wanted to go in, and what the story was ultimately _about_. So I stopped.

Now that I have had some time to grow up, mature a bit, and get a better idea of what exactly it is that I want to do, I'm giving this a shot again. And this time, I hope, I'm in it for the long-run.

My intention is for this story to function as a continuation of events in the game and to expound on some details that were left unclear in the game's narrative. But in the same way that the game's focus is on Squall and Rinoa's relationship, so too is this story. It will cover a span of ten to fifteen years following the game…Which means that it will be lengthy and that it will very likely take me years to finish.

To those that choose to read this and that take the time to write reviews, you have my immense gratitude and thanks. I greatly value and appreciate feedback, and constructive comments will help me continue to progress with and improve upon this story, while giving me the motivation to continue. Thank you.


	2. Chapter II

**Chapter II**

"Sir, a question."

Squall looked up from his portfolio, the neatly scattered papers that lay before him on the polished table. He found the speaker sitting to his right and well down the long table, a man in his early forties, one of the Garden's few remaining instructors from a past era. Some years ago, Squall had had a class or two with him—Intelligence and Reconnaissance, and perhaps Intermediate Techniques in Indirect and Restorative ParaMagic, he couldn't really remember—but he didn't know the man well, and was still unaccustomed to being addressed as "Sir" by someone that had formerly been his superior. He could tell that the instructor returned the feeling.

"Yes?"

"If I'm to understand these statistics correctly…Garden's debts to its benefactors will be completely paid off by the end of next month, and with our current assets, we have the resources both for an expansion project of our own _and_ for funding a significant portion of Trabia's reconstruction?"

"That's correct."

He watched the bowing of the instructor's head, the darting of his eyes over the papers, the doubtful frown. Sitting at the head of an ovoid table, Squall had a perfect view of about two dozen similar expressions—skeptical perusals, a concurrent but individual effort to find the flaw in his calculations. As one, the highest-ranking instructors and officials of Balamb Garden sought the error that their leader must have made. It seemed impossible for him to be right, as Squall was well aware.

Beside him, Quistis was trying to catch his eye.

"Commander, if I may?"

Squall gave her a nod. She rose from her chair, placing her hands on the surface of the table.

"I'd like to draw your attention to the fifth page of the dossier…" There was a grudging shuffle of papers. "—You'll see the calculations of Garden's acquisitions following our services to the Estharian government and the handover of Galbadian resources after the surrender of both Galbadia Garden and Deling City; following that are our current assets, our recent investments, and our projected gains over the next four months."

Squall sat stiffly as Quistis continued with specific numbers and exact figures, scanning the faces as they shifted to muted surprise and understanding. Now they looked back at their papers again, marveling. He felt no satisfaction at their being proven wrong. As Quistis concluded her explanation and took her seat, Squall resumed his own agenda before they could question him further.

"What this means," he explained, "is that in the course of the next month, we'll begin both the planning of our own construction project and our aid to Trabia."

He never had liked meetings—no one did that he knew of, really. The difference now was that it was his duty to conduct them, he was no longer listening passively to someone else's ideas and decisions and orders, as these were his own policies, his own mandates, his own doing. Squall never let them run longer than forty-five minutes, and this one was no exception. He knew from experience that after forty-five minutes, no one listened anymore. At the end, the officers trickled out, carrying their folders and documents and leaving Squall in the conference room alone.

The Commander pushed away from the table and turned to stand before the line of tall windows that had been at his back throughout the meeting. The windows looked out onto the quad and, beyond that, the rough line of jagged blue-grey mountains to the north of the Garden. There were trees in the quad, and a stretch of forest leading to the base of the mountains, whose leaves were turning shades of yellow, rustic orange, and antique red that glowed in the early afternoon light. Below him, there were students doing homework together on picnic tables, or simply strolling through the open-air promenade. Suddenly he envied them.

Squall remembered standing here, on a bright, late-summer morning a few days after the party. Cid had stood across from him, gazing out the same windows; they had still looked out over the quad, but at the time, it had been only part of the quad, and beyond that, open ocean. Sunlight had glared off the water's surface.

"Sir, I—" Squall had started to say, but Cid cut him off.

"Squall," the former Headmaster had articulated patiently, "We're on course to Centra and the orphanage. You know that and I know that. There, Edea and I will disembark. After that, what Balamb Garden does and what you do are your decisions to make. The Garden is yours. You're the Commander."

Squall hadn't been sure if he'd felt like throwing his fist into the nearest wall or slumping to the floor in defeat. He also hadn't been sure why he'd tried to approach this with Cid in the first place—the Headmaster had long since relinquished the Garden to his control, and had only returned for a few days to celebrate their victory, the achievement of their purpose, the realization of Garden's reason for being. Once the euphoria of success had passed, like a dense fog lifting to reveal blinding sunlight, Squall recognized that he was still responsible for a military organization whose mission was spent, for which he'd never wanted to be responsible in the first place.

He thought he must have been in denial, foolish denial. Now the world was devastated in the wake of only the latest in a half-century-long succession of wars, and he was expected to command a rising military superpower. There was a part of him that that couldn't face it, that grasped in desperation to the apparition of hope that Cid and Edea would return and take responsibility for what they had created. That, Squall had to admit to himself, had been why he had sought this conversation with Cid.

In the end, though, Squall had gritted his teeth and said nothing.

I could quit, he had thought—and not for the first time. It had been like reliving the day that Cid had named Squall the leader when they were still in Fisherman's Horizon.

I could quit, I could run away. I could go somewhere remote, with Rinoa, and the world would forget that we exist. Isn't that what Cid and Edea did, what they're doing now? Isn't that what we _should_ do, too? But Squall had simply continued to clench his jaw as he stared out the windows, at the endless, choppy blue that stretched away from him and touched the horizon.

In the weeks that followed, that idea hadn't left him. Even now, he entertained the notion on occasion. Squall knew he wouldn't do it, though. He wouldn't abandon the Garden—he wouldn't do what Cid had done.

"If you or Rinoa ever need anything, come see Edea and me," Cid had said as he walked out of the room. "You know where to find us." Then he had left Squall standing alone, where he was now.

"Squall?" Someone was just behind him.

He found Quistis waiting at the head of the table, her expression a mix of patience and concern, like she knew what he had been thinking. She was dignified and authoritative in her SeeD uniform, which Squall also wore. He had taken to dressing in his uniform regularly as he'd assumed his rank and adopted its niceties, and he had insisted that his officers do so as well. It was necessary, he thought, to reestablish order in the Garden and to distinguish the new line of command.

Squall could see the decision on her face as Quistis chose not to ask after his thoughts.

"Have you already responded to Trabia's inquiry regarding a survey delegation?" Her voice was gentle, as if she were trying not to disturb him.

"No, I haven't yet," Squall replied.

"I'll see to it, then."

"Make sure Selphie knows. I want her to oversee the organization of it."

"Certainly. I believe she'd like the same."

Quistis seemed about to leave, but didn't. Instead, she asked, "Do you need anything else?"

"No."

Squall lifted a hand and massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Quistis was one of the few people now with whom he would display such a gesture, a confession of stress and frustration that he couldn't afford to share with the rest of the Garden.

"Thank you for stepping in earlier," he added after a moment.

"You're welcome. I know it's difficult for them to believe that Garden has come into this sort of wealth and influence in such a short span of time. No one understands how you've done it."

"I'm not sure I understand either, honestly." Squall answered frankly and maybe a little impatiently, without graciousness or gratitude. It was not something for which he wished to take credit.

Quistis seemed to understand, as she didn't press him further. "Are you going back to your office now?" she asked, dismissing herself. "I'll have someone bring you a cup of coffee." She gave him a nod and started walking across the room to the door.

"Thank you—but that isn't your job," Squall called after her. "You're not a secretary."

"I'm aware. Call it a friendly favor," she replied without turning around. Squall could hear the clipping of her heels on the tile floor outside the conference room.

Two weeks after they had left Cid and Edea in Centra, when the Garden had returned to its stationary position in Balamb, Squall had promoted Quistis to the rank of Lieutenant Commander. He had made up the title to fill a crucial need in his reordered chain of command—he wanted Quistis at his right hand, and had invented a station in which she could serve that purpose. Already she was an invaluable adviser and steadfast supporter, essential to his leadership.

When, for instance, Squall had announced the official ban on the use of Guardian Forces in Balamb Garden a month after her promotion, Quistis had stood behind his decision unwaveringly. She had defended his policy against opposition both from faculty members and the students that had grown reliant on Guardian Force use, and soon she had become one of its most outspoken proponents. In fact, Squall credited her with having allayed much of the controversy surrounding the new regulation.

He remembered her standing at a podium at the front of the raised dais, addressing an assembly of cadets, SeeDs, and instructors on the quad. She had been answering questions in her stern, no-nonsense manner following his announcement and initial explanation.

"There are ways of using ParaMagic without the processes of Guardian Force junctioning," she had elaborated in response to a student's query, "and therefore, without the harmful side-effects associated with junctioning. We will not cease our training in ParaMagic, but we have found few benefits in the utilization of Guardian Forces—and those scant benefits do not outweigh the costs, primarily the costs of memory loss. Further, I would like to remind everyone that both Galbadia Garden and Trabia Garden have always maintained a strict ban on Guardian Force use. We have been the exception, not the rule."

"Trabia was destroyed and Galbadia's in ruins after losing the war to us. So much good that ban did them!" An errant student had jumped to his feet to yell, pumping his fist in the air. There were approving shouts and dispersed applause in the audience.

Quistis had stared the cadet down, her gaze never breaking from him even as the young man took his seat again. "Guardian Forces," she had said slowly, "did not win the war." The cheers that followed her had been strong, emphatic.

Squall gathered his own portfolio and left the conference room.

Out in the hall, clumps of students were on their way to afternoon classes, milling about with backpacks or sturdy cases for their weapons. They moved away from Squall as he strode through the hallways, providing him deferential space; a few junior cadets shyly peered up at him and said "Good afternoon, Commander." He acknowledged their greeting out of necessity, but quickened his pace to escape the attention.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in his office, what had previously been the Headmaster's office.

There was a constant flow of updates on the Garden's internal workings reaching his desk throughout the day—all of which required his acknowledgment and consent—and a steady stream of both phone calls and messages on his computer terminal. Instructors needed approval for field exercises and curricula; there was some concern of Xu's regarding recruitment, retention, and turnover; a SeeD contract needed his appraisal. Then there were reviews on the conditions of the Garden facilities that he had to go over in preparation for their expansion planning—the training center, the library, the infirmary, technological capacities, exercise and combat equipment, the dormitories, the entire Garden.

Then there were the matters from abroad: requests for assistance in mundane activities and events, diplomatic contacts, interminable updates on world events. Squall did not much like these.

He felt more secure handling Garden's daily affairs; they were his to guide and control, such was his authority. But external concerns demanded far more care, the delicate balance and precision of a dance that he was only just learning. Step too far in one direction, and he'd crush a partner's toes; step too far in another, and he would be reeling into other dancers, upsetting the sensitive flow, stirring waves of chaos that would undulate violently outward and disturb the entire floor.

There was an equilibrium to be kept—a rhythm, a tempo, a subtly of movement, a necessary grace. But the steps were intricate and demanding, the cadence often too fast for him. Squall felt as though he were simply stumbling his way through, a novice in a room filled with ruthless professionals.

By the afternoon, he had only succeeded in chipping away at the solid, ever-growing mass. Squall sat back in his black swivel chair and scanned his office, needing desperately to look away from the papers in front of him.

There were folders and files stacked in neat, daunting columns on the desk in front of him. The desk curved around to his right, where the screen of his computer terminal radiated harsh light. And dominating the right wall, over that part of the desk, was a wide window. Squall noticed for the first time that the only light in the room that wasn't coming from his various lamps or the computer screen was a dull ruddy glow from the window—it was already reaching dusk. He looked at his clock; only 16:54. The days were getting shorter.

He stood up and stretched, feeling the strain in his vertebrae and the coarse, heavy fabric of his uniform jacket as it pulled taut against him. He left the room.

* * *

><p>There was a knock on the door. Rinoa looked up from her book as Angelo, from her dog-bed in the corner, gave a single warning bark.<p>

"It's all right," Rinoa said, closing the book and standing. The dog dropped her head back to her forepaws, cutting a quick glance back in sulking acquiescence.

It was Selphie at the door. "Dinner?" she asked.

Rinoa looked back at the clock next to her bed and discovered that it was past six o'clock.

"Yeah, thanks for coming to get me—I lost track of the time." She assured Angelo that she would be back later.

The cafeteria was alive with chatter, the bustle of students coming in and out, the sounds of metal forks against plastic plates and trays. Rinoa followed Selphie through an arched doorway at the back of the cafeteria and into a smaller room where the sound dropped off: the officers' dining room. The separation had existed before Squall's promotion, as long as the Garden itself had existed, providing the senior members of the Garden with a place to take their meals away from the ruckus of the student body. Only SeeDs, instructors, and ranking officers and staff were allowed there. Rinoa was none of those, but she joined her friends there, even so. No one seemed to care that she did.

She and Selphie found Quistis and Zell, who were sitting together at an otherwise empty table. They had their meal and talked for a while, as time eased steadily into evening.

"Has anyone seen Squall—or Irvine, for that matter?" Rinoa asked eventually. Not that it was unusual for Squall, or for any of others, to be late to meals. That was, in fact, usually the case. Squall in particular was difficult to catch at mealtime, as he often either arrived very early or very late, and somehow Rinoa always managed to miss him no matter how hard she tried to anticipate his timing.

"They were here earlier," Zell said. "Really early. They were both leaving when I got here, and I got here early, myself. Some matter with Galbadia Garden Squall wanted Irvine to help him look into. Nothing hugely important, but needed to get done."

None of that was surprising either. Ever since Squall had started reorganizing the Garden's command structure, he'd spent a great deal of time ensuring that his new officers were getting acclimated to their posts. Irvine, now a senior officer and Balamb Garden's official liaison to Galbadia Garden, would be in the office suites that evening, working together with Squall on some task that would eventually become his own responsibility.

The others, similarly, had received new assignments from their Commander, to which they were all gradually adjusting. Selphie, like Irvine, was in a role dealing with external affairs, primarily by serving as Balamb's representative to Trabia Garden. Zell was undergoing instructor training and had been placed as an overseer of junior cadets. Quistis was virtually second in command. There were others with new posts, too—Xu and Nida, for example. All had official titles, designations, importance, work. They were busy.

And Rinoa, for her part, couldn't help but admire the smoothness of the transition, the layout and accomplishment of Squall's plan. He had rearranged the Garden in a manner that would support his leadership, positioning his most trusted companions as the separate, synchronized components of a sophisticated machine. Like clockwork—different gears and cogs and levers working together, in motion, fulfilling a purpose as one. A well-oiled machine, as the saying went. They had told Squall to rely on them, and now, he did. The entire Garden did. And they, in turn, were determined not to disappoint their Commander or their Garden.

Rinoa, though, was still no soldier, and she had no intention of becoming one. She had no role to speak of, no work.

"What sort of matter?" she asked after a moment's consideration. She knew that it wasn't her concern and that it may not have been her place to ask. But she was curious, and how else was she to know? Squall never spoke of his work with her.

It was Quistis that answered. "Regulations—oversight. We're in the process of reviewing Galbadia Garden's combat capacities. Their new headmaster forwarded us the information on past and present enrollment, technological capabilities, funding...It appears Vinzer Deling had become one of Galbadia Garden's largest shareholders, to the point that he was essentially the Garden Master in the same manner that Norg was to Balamb. And Martine was no doubt getting kickbacks from the arrangement."

"Small wonder the Garden had such close political and military ties with the Galbadian government," Zell growled from his seat next to her.

"That would also explain why Galbadia Garden never trained SeeDs…And why their training emphasis was always on military technology above all else," Rinoa added, trying to contribute to the conversation with what little she knew of the Garden's previous policies. At times like these, she felt as she had when she'd first joined the group of SeeDs and Garden students: left behind as they settled into the rhythm of their work, struggling to keep up with them, to stay at their pace. "They were a recruitment pool for the Galbadian military, not independent mercenaries for hire."

"Exactly." Quistis continued, "The relationship between Galbadia Garden and Deling City paved the way for Ultimecia's takeover and exploitation of the Garden itself, even after Martine was forced out and the president was killed. And it was also the reason that Martine helped to orchestrate the assassination plot against Edea—her rising political influence threatened the balance that Martine thought he'd struck. At any rate, we're monitoring Galbadia Garden and placing a cap on its combat forces and spending, at least for the time being."

"But I thought it was a separate establishment…?" Rinoa started to ask. There had never been a hierarchy among the Gardens. Balamb had been the first, certainly, but it had never wielded any power over the other two. The three Gardens had always functioned as autonomous entities, loosely affiliated with one another, but with little overlap otherwise.

"Not anymore," Zell said, then added quickly as Quistis started to correct him, "at least, not as long as Balamb Garden owns the bulk of Galbadia Garden's debt."

It was Selphie's turn to pipe up. "And even aside from that, the rest of the world doesn't want Galbadia Garden or Galbadia left to their own devices right now. Galbadia Garden was practically handed over to us."

Rinoa nodded slowly. She knew of the international restrictions on the Galbadian nation, but everything else was new to her.

"Technically speaking," Quistis clarified, "Squall and Balamb Garden are now Galbadia Garden's largest benefactors. And as long as that is the case, and as long as the memory of the war and Galbadia's instigation of it remain fresh in the world's collective mind, the peacekeeping Garden and its Commander will maintain a supervisory role.

"We're sending a diplomatic contingent at the beginning of next month, as a sign of goodwill and cooperation…and to conclude the specifics of the restrictions. Irvine and Squall are working together on the logistics, as they'll be heading the delegation. And that's the long explanation of what they're doing at the moment." Quistis concluded with a vague smile, a touch of humor.

It occurred to Rinoa that Squall had mentioned nothing to her about leaving for Galbadia. In fact, he had mentioned none of this—Balamb's oversight of Galbadia Garden, the investigation, none of it. Then she remembered that she had seen Squall only once since they had returned from Timber earlier that week, at lunch day before yesterday. She passed each day assuming she would run into him at some point; and then, some way or another, she simply wouldn't see him.

I'll find him this evening, she decided.

* * *

><p>Later that night—after she'd seen to Angelo and was fairly certain that Squall and Irvine had had ample time to finish their meeting—Rinoa traipsed through the empty corridors to Squall's room, book in hand. The Headmaster's Quarters, where Squall now resided, were located down an inconspicuous and easily-missed passage on the third floor. Well removed from any other rooms, the apartment provided a sense of isolation and privacy that Squall undoubtedly relished. There was nothing else there to disturb him.<p>

The hallway was dimly lit and carpeted, and at the end of it was a single door. She went to it and knocked.

There was no answer. Rinoa waited a while, knocked again a bit louder, and still the door did not open. She could hear no movement in the apartment, so she turned to leave.

There was no way he and Irvine could still be working, she thought, unless Squall had stayed in his office to continue working alone. That was feasible, and not out of the ordinary. Rinoa considered the notion with a disapproving frown. If that were the case, she would go find him and force him to stop, it was night and he needed to rest. Though, on the other hand, he could very well be asleep in his room—but she doubted that.

Rinoa started back up the hall with a determined gait, turned the corner sharply, and nearly ran into him.

She recoiled in surprise as Squall stepped back to keep from colliding with her.

"S-sorry," she stammered, regaining her balance and taking him in with a quick sweep of her gaze. Squall was out of his uniform, dressed casually. His hair was somewhat disheveled, and there was a thin gleam of sweat on his forehead. The heavy, solid case for his gunblade swung from his hand.

"It's all right," he said.

"I thought you must be in your office, when you didn't answer."

Squall shook his head and moved past her. He didn't ask why she was there; she had barged into his room both before and after his move enough times to make the reasons for her presence obvious.

"Not tonight." Squall was pulling his keys out of his pocket, opening the door.

"Training center?"

"Yeah—haven't had enough time lately."

Rinoa followed him inside and waited as he flicked on a lamp. Warm light washed over the table, the couch next to it, and the adjacent wall. In the rest of the room, the lamp cast long, skewed shadows that seemed to shrink away and hide from the glow in the nooks and edges behind the furniture. As Squall turned to face her, she could see a trail of rusty cinnabar splatters across his shoulder in the fresh light. Blood, but not his blood.

"I'm going to go take a shower," he told her, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway to his bedroom. Rinoa went into a different room, his study, where he was guaranteed to come afterwards.

The apartment was simple, small, and would have been cozy had it not been empty. She imagined that it must have been a comfortable place for Cid and Edea, in the short time they had lived together after the Garden's construction. There was a living room, a bedroom and a balcony outside it, a bathroom, a small kitchen, and a study. There were basic furnishings, it needed nothing extravagant. Rinoa had often thought about what it would be like if it actually felt lived-in. But in the condition in which Squall left it, the apartment felt as though someone had started to move in, forgot about finishing the move, and then came back once in a while just to make sure that everything there was still in order.

She and Squall had helped Cid remove all of his and Edea's remaining belongings when they had arrived in Centra. Boxes of books from the shelves, old mementos and little keepsakes with fond memories, stale folders with irrelevant information, photographs in frames, cooking utensils, linens—things that made it feel like someone lived there, belonged there, called it their own. Squall, however, did not have enough possessions to fill the apartment. His clothing and uniforms fit into a corner of the closet, his gunblade into a corner of his bedroom, his books into a corner of a shelf.

Most of the apartment was bare, and most of it was unused. Squall never went into the kitchen in particular, as he had neither the time nor the desire to cook anything. Rinoa would have treated him to something sometime had she known how to cook, but she didn't, so the kitchen was superfluous and ignored. The study and the bedroom were really the only rooms in which he spent any amount of time. And even then, he only went into his bedroom to sleep and more often than not, he preferred working in his office to sitting in the study.

Rinoa heard running water as she settled into an armchair, opening her book and finding her place. She had checked it out from the library, a novel set in the period of the Holy Dollet Empire.

Soon, Squall padded into the room, his clothes changed, his wet hair dark and somewhat messy. Rinoa could smell him as he passed her—clean and familiar and masculine, but she would never let herself pay more than a passing notice. He sat down at his desk and started rifling through papers.

That was how it was with them now, mostly. If Rinoa wanted to spend time with him, it was sitting in a room with a desk, reading a book quietly so as not to disturb him. She would sit with him as he toiled on whatever it was that he did, but during those times that they spoke together, he never approached the subject of his work. Aside from the details that the others gave her, Rinoa had no insight into the goings-on of the Garden or of Squall's work itself; and in the meantime, he had very little time to spare to be with her.

She held fast to the hope that the demands of his work would level out soon, that things would go back to normal. But when she thought that, she wondered what had been normal beforehand, what _normal_ meant. There had been nothing normal about their lives during the war. She may have been able to spend more time with him then, but that time had been incidental, they had snatched it up like each moment together might be their last. She wondered if now, their lives in a state of peace—his work and the languid, eventless passage of her days—were what normal was; and then she asked herself what she expected of herself, of him, for normality. She had no answer.

Squall sat back in his chair suddenly, breathing a heavy sigh, drawing Rinoa's attention away from her book. She watched as he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes like he was battling back sleep.

"Squall," she said measuredly, "I think you need to stop for the evening."

He dropped his hands away and looked at her. Before he could conjure up a response, Rinoa continued, "And don't tell me you still have a lot to do, I know you do. But if you don't relax some, you'll be exhausted tomorrow, and then you won't get as much done as you would if you'd gotten some rest."

She rose from the armchair and strode out of the study and into the living room, preventing any reply or protest from him. There were a few moments of uncertain silence as she found a new seat on the living room couch and picked up her reading again. But then there came the creak of his chair from the other room, and when she looked up again Squall was standing in the threshold between the study and living room, watching her. He was conceding defeat.

He hesitated. Then, to her surprise, he crossed the room quietly and sat down next to her, despite the other chairs in the room. But she pretended not to be surprised. She lowered the book to her lap, placed the bookmark between the pages, delicately and deliberately, and closed it. Squall didn't seem to know what to do, and at that moment, Rinoa had to admit that she didn't either.

Her thoughts returned to the emptiness of his apartment and the edges of the book she grasped in her hands.

"I'm going to bring you some books," she told him.

Squall looked at her, then at the expansive, empty bookcase that stood in front of them on the opposite wall. Cid, they had discovered during the move, was something of a bibliophile. Stuffed bookshelves had stood in almost every room of the apartment, and Rinoa had regretted to see their former occupants go with him.

She continued, "And a coffee maker, for your kitchen. And maybe a kettle to make hot water for tea. Winter holidays are coming up, anyway. They can be gifts."

"What, so that you can come in here whenever you like and make yourself a cup of tea or coffee and read? Sounds like a gift to yourself to me."

"Well, I promise you can still use them. Maybe I'll throw in a few blankets while I'm at it—it's always too cold in here, so it's never comfortable for reading. Do you ever turn your heat on?"

"Not really," he said. "And now I suspect I'm going to come back here one day and find a fireplace being installed."

Rinoa considered that. "Well, there _are _constructors coming soon for the Garden's expansion, aren't there?" She had heard about that from the others earlier, though there had been talk about it throughout the Garden for quite some time. "I could always ask them. That's not a bad idea, thanks."

At this, Squall's gaze darted back to her, and he regarded her carefully, as though he were trying to decipher if she meant what she said. She answered him with a cryptic smile. When Squall raised no objection, she interpreted his silence to mean that he wouldn't mind that so much.

Rinoa tried not to notice the warmth of his body next to hers, their proximity to one another, the motion and closeness of his chest as he breathed. It was not often that he was so near, and on the rare occasions that he was, it was as if her awareness of his presence was magnified, fixated on every detail. She tried to lure her consciousness elsewhere, lest her heartbeat should quicken more than it already had and that he should feel it, so close was he to her.

At times like these, Rinoa thought that he might do something more—that he _wanted_ to do something more, embrace her, take her hand in his, something, anything—but he always stopped himself short, whatever it might have been. Squall did not know how to show affection, and even when he seemed to want to, he hesitated, stalled, missed his chances. His opportunities were devoured by his workload and his uncertainty.

There had been no repeats of the evening on the balcony, when they had been interrupted by the dying batteries of a nosy, prying camera. There were moments that had come close, certainly, but only ever that: close, never fulfilled. She had since passed the initiative to him, at least for the moment. She would guide him, push him gently when he needed it, but only then. She wanted to let him learn to grow comfortable with her, with _them_; he needed the chance to find his own way. And until he did, she would be patient.

The words came without her summoning them, a distraction, and a bad one.

"When are you leaving for Galbadia?"

He turned to her with an unpleasant look. She'd entered a subject he didn't want breached, and she understood it at once.

"How did you know?"

"Quistis and Zell. Why, did you not want me to know?" Half-teasing, half-serious.

Squall considered her question for a long moment.

"No, it's not that," he said. He leaned back slowly, settling into the couch and looking off towards the wall. "I would've told you. Just hadn't gotten around to it." He went back to rubbing his eyes again, then his temples. His voice turned gravelly with fatigue. "Irvine and I are leaving in three weeks, the first Tuesday of next month."

"For how long?"

"Just a few days. We'll be back that weekend."

Rinoa leaned back as well, sitting now as he was. She dared to venture further, to draw more out of him, treading carefully but boldly into a place that seemed so off-limits, so forbidden, simply because he never wanted to enter that territory with her. She stared off at nothing as she spoke again.

"Quistis and Zell also said that you now own Galbadia Garden's debt…so that you're now virtually the Garden's primary benefactor."

"Perhaps I should remind them both that it's against regulation to discuss official matters with non-ranking personnel, let alone with members of the residential community that otherwise have no affiliation with Garden."

Rinoa's mouth twisted sourly. "Please tell me you're joking."

"I am."

"—And I do have an affiliation with Garden. I may not have an official title like the rest of you, but I belong here as much as anyone."

Rinoa couldn't understand the change in his expression, the traces of contradictory, opposed emotions melding together as one: doubt and relief, disappointment and contentedness. She didn't know what to make of it, but she kept going anyway.

"They wouldn't have to tell me everything," she continued, cautious but firm, "if you'd tell me yourself."

"I know. I'm sorry."

His answer caught her so off-guard that for some time, Rinoa didn't know what to say. It was a genuine apology, not one of the past elusions with which she had become so familiar each time she'd encouraged him to be more open in the past. After a moment, Squall elaborated without prompting.

"…I have to talk about the Garden with everyone _else_, all day, every day."

She found the implicit message without him saying more: she was the one person with whom Garden was not a concern, his sole escape and immunity from his rank, his one freedom. In what little time they spent together when he wasn't working, he was _away_ from his work. He was not keeping secrets, not excluding her—he was merely preserving his one refuge. Rinoa looked down at the book in her lap, scrutinizing the rough creases and the frayed corners, searching for something to say.

"I'm sorry," was all she could find.

"Don't be."

She sat up slowly, collecting her book and standing. "You should really go sleep."

Squall nodded, rose stiffly, and followed her to the door. As she moved into the hall outside the apartment, Rinoa stopped and turned back in the doorway to face him.

"You really need to have a break," she said. "Timber didn't really count. Let's go somewhere this weekend, away from the Garden. Okay?"

To her relief, Squall considered and replied that he thought that would probably be all right, as long as nothing came up beforehand.

She placed a quick kiss on his lips as she left.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>

Thank you kindly for the reviews for the first chapter. I really appreciate the feedback; it's very encouraging, and keeps me feeling enthusiastic and motivated as I continue to write new chapters.

I did want to mention that you may notice (both now and in future chapters) that I have taken a few liberties with certain details and settings from the game. Any video game, especially one that is now over a decade old, will have some limitations in its storytelling. And while my goal is to stay true to the game, I also wish to exercise a bit of flexibility to add some depth to a few places.

So if you notice minor (or, perhaps, major) discrepancies in what is presented in the game and what is presented here, some of these are very intentional on my part…Although if you notice something that you believe is an accidental mistake or oversight, please let me know. I hope to be receptive to the point of going back to change mistakes that are too out-of-place or that otherwise cannot be overlooked.

Additionally, for future reference, more information on the progression of this story (e.g. the timing of updates and so on) can be found on my profile.

Thank you again for reading and giving feedback.


	3. Chapter III

**Chapter III**

Rinoa bent down to undo the clasp, and at the moment of the metallic _click_, Angelo bolted and went dashing off ahead of them. When the dog was well down the trail, she slowed to a brisk trot, snout angled toward the ground, moving in a beeline before veering off into the undergrowth. Rinoa's normally mild-mannered, tractable companion had been hysteric from the instant Rinoa had taken her leash out of its drawer and had spoken the word "walk." In some ways, that was how he imagined Rinoa must feel but didn't express—in some ways, he had to admit, it was how he felt.

"You're not to work this weekend," Quistis had told him yesterday afternoon, her gaze steady and penetrating, ineluctable. "Rinoa knows. I've already spoken with her. She told me you agreed to go somewhere off-campus with her as a break, so I happen to know that you're already under obligation."

Squall had stared back at her.

"Officers normally don't work on the weekends here, Squall—"

"The Garden's business doesn't disappear just because it's the weekend."

"—And there are other staff members and officials on hand that can take care of anything if you are not here to do so, should the need arise." Her gaze had hardened at the interruption. "Anything else you think needs to be done can wait until Monday. As Lieutenant Commander, I intend to see that you fulfill your obligations appropriately, and you have an appointment to attend to this weekend that is not in your office." She had given him a tight, crafty smile, as if she knew that he could not argue against her.

"Fine."

"That's the right answer. Enjoy your weekend." The door to his office had swung shut behind her.

Quistis had been right; he had to give her that. Although Squall hadn't exactly promised Rinoa anything, he _had_ agreed that if nothing else demanded his attention, he would have a break. And now that he was here, out of sight of the silvery shimmer of the Garden, stretching his limbs and breathing in the cool, raw air of the outdoors, he was grateful for Rinoa's suggestion and Quistis's firmness. He needed to be away.

The trees seemed to close in on the path behind them as they walked further into the forest, oak and elm and beech enfolding them in the thicket and making them seem infinitely farther from the Garden than they really were. When Rinoa had said she wanted to go somewhere away from the academy, he had assumed she would wish for a day trip to one of the small coastal or mountain villages, or into the capital. He had not expected a hike.

They had followed a trail that slinked through a field, away from the Garden and into the woodlands that ran in a flat expanse before reaching a range of foothills at the base of the Balambian Spine, the Gaulg Mountains. From where they were now, the great mountains weren't visible through the trees, but the path was level and undemanding.

Squall could hear the rustling of dead leaves and scrub just off the trail ahead of them, and as he looked there, Angelo burst out of a bush, hot on the trail of nothing in particular. Beside him, Rinoa laughed.

"She really enjoys being off the leash," she said. "I don't let her go much, unless we're away from the Garden."

Rinoa, he had noticed, was always careful with Angelo on the Garden's campus, always mindful of the dog's behavior and of trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The restrictions against animals in the Garden had never changed. Rinoa was just an exception, an exemption that Squall, as Commander, simply chose to overlook—as she was with an assortment of other rules and violations at the Garden. He appreciated her attempt to underplay that fact, for all the good it did.

"So, Squall," Rinoa started to speak again, drawing him out of his thoughts. "Have you ever been back here before?"

"Yeah, I have. A few times, in fact. We use this area for outdoor survival training courses for junior cadets and mock battlefield scenarios for the senior cadets in preparation for the SeeD exams. You'll see up ahead."

As they came to the clearing, the canopy opened into an enclosed field of dense, short grass. There was a squat concrete shed to one side of the tree line; old tools, camping equipment, and gear and obstacles for military simulation games were stacked under a lean-to with a sheet metal roof. The foliage in front of the shed had been cleared for a fire-pit and a series of crouched benches around it. To the far end of the field were a larger wooden shack and a structure that resembled a hunting platform. More paths led out from all sides of the clearing, snaking off into the woods as if in retreat from the field's exposure.

They moved past the shed and fire-pit and into the center of the training grounds, a light wind dipping down from the tree tops and brushing against them, tugging at their thin jackets.

"We run drills here," Squall said. He motioned to the hunting platform. "An instructor or ranking SeeD stands up there to observe and call orders." They continued towards the wooden hovel. "Sometimes there are camps out here, or farther into the forests to give a better sense of seclusion. You never know when a mission might end you up somewhere in the wilderness, facing combat or otherwise. SeeD candidates have to know how to fight and survive in the woods, working together and alone."

He watched as Rinoa picked her way through the thick grass and came to the platform. She inspected the split logs that made a ladder to the top, reached out a hand to touch the rough unshaven bark, then grabbed onto a rung and tried to shake it as though she were testing the sturdiness of the structure. Something else caught her attention. She bent down next to the platform and rose again with something large and heavy in her arms, a rifle.

"Airsoft," Squall explained as he came to stand across from her, "for practice."

Rinoa hefted it, testing its weight. She turned the gun this way and that, looking over it.

"It's broken," she said. Squall could see that a piece of the weapon had cracked and snapped off, the metal rusted, eroded, and useless from neglect.

"Someone must have forgotten to get rid of it," he answered.

There was something unnatural, something disconcerting about watching her with the ruined weapon, a biting sense of incongruity that gnawed at him and wouldn't release as he pulled away, but clamped harder still. He had seen her with a weapon before, many times, but he didn't think that was what bothered him—instead, he felt oddly exposed, self-conscious. Her careful examination seemed not of the gun, but of _him_, of them, the students and instructors and SeeDs of the Garden. What they were and what they did and why: soldiers, trained from childhood. Squall couldn't place the source of the feeling, however hard he tried.

Rinoa put the rifle back where she'd found it and together they started walking again, taking the trail that led northward. Squall finally pushed the unwarranted notion aside.

"You didn't bring your gunblade," Rinoa commented suddenly, an observation and a question as one.

"No need," he answered. "There aren't any monsters here. They've been cleared out, and if any happen to wander into the area, there's always a squadron of students sent out. It makes for a decent training opportunity."

Rinoa nodded and fell into a thoughtful silence.

They were equipped only with backpacks laden with picnic sundries split between them: a blanket, some sandwiches, a few bottles of water, a package of smoked fish from Balamb, bags with grapes and slices of fresh local apples. The closest thing Squall had to a weapon was a small multi-function pocket knife that he doubted he would use.

Rinoa had come to his apartment last evening with their supplies spilling out the sides of a single tote bag, cheerful and with a marked sense of triumph. She had led him into the chilly, vacant kitchen and spread everything out onto a counter.

"What is this—" he'd started to ask.

"It's for tomorrow. I went to a store in town today and bought everything. Some of it'll need to be refrigerated, which is why I brought it here."

"And what are we doing tomorrow, exactly?"

"Hiking. And I thought we'd have a picnic while we're out."

He hadn't readily confessed it, but he vastly preferred that idea to the alternatives she could have chosen. There were no other people in the woods, no one to disturb him or expect anything out of him or to watch them or to notice their existence. Only the trees and the falling leaves, the woodland stillness and the thinning fall air.

Shafts of golden light fell through conifer boughs as they started the ascent into the foothills, drifting through the space between limbs and trunks to lay gentle, sunny fingers on the forest floor. The trees grew somewhat closer together here, the foliage tangled with sticks and briars, and the forest reeked of the sweet, damp, rotting smell of long-fallen evergreens and the warm spice of pine needles baking in the sun. The path turned abruptly to the right and tapered as it started to climb, too narrow for them to walk abreast. Rinoa moved in front and led the way as they started up the grade.

Walking behind her, Squall couldn't help but watch her: the sway of her dark hair, pulled back to keep off her neck; the shape of her neck and shoulders and back, bent forward slightly against the path's incline; the movement of her hips and legs as she navigated jutting rocks and gnarled roots that broke through the packed dirt of the path. He noticed every detail as if he were discovering her for the first time, and found himself realizing suddenly how long it had been since they had last been together like this, alone—how long it had been since he had really seen her, noticed her, hadn't taken her presence for granted. She was suddenly new and fascinating and, in that moment, his alone to behold.

Angelo darted in and out of the undergrowth in front of them, following their general direction but forging her own route as she peered down rodent holes or sprung into brambles to scare songbirds from their perches, her tongue lolling happily from her mouth. She seemed to experience none of the exertion that the two humans did as the slope steepened. But to Squall, it was a good exertion. His lungs opened to drink in the fragrant air, the clear wind was sharp and chilly against his skin, and he could feel the grateful pull of muscles that had stayed sedentary behind a desk for far too long. He had not known this sense of invigoration and freedom since their victory in the summer.

At a switchback, the trail swung around to the left and leveled off. Squall turned back long enough to look behind them, and felt some satisfaction at how far they'd climbed, how deeply into the forest they had gone.

With the trail smoothed, he resumed his place beside her. They started to talk.

Slowing to a strolling pace, they fell into relaxed, easy conversation. Sometimes they talked about nothing, the mundane minutiae of everyday life. At other times, he finally answered her curious but restrained questions about what he did as Commander, about what was going on in the Garden. Rinoa did most of the talking, but he didn't mind that. He listened to what she had to say, the stories she told, the way she laughed—and he found himself enjoying it.

As the trail began to crawl uphill again, Squall stopped. Rinoa took a few steps past him, halted, and peered back at him with concern.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm just not sure where we are."

They had come to a number of forks in the trail, each time choosing one haphazardly if they noticed the divergence at all. Squall had a vague notion that they were headed westward, but with the sun at its zenith and hidden behind branches and leaves, he couldn't be certain. He stared off into the weald past the trail, at the gaps between the trees, the sparse underbrush, and the untouched carpet of moss and pine needles. Something about the wildness, the openness, and the uncertainty enticed him.

"We can always follow the trails back. I'm sure one of them will lead back to Garden, or to one of the villages," Rinoa was saying. But that did not worry him.

"Let's go this way." Squall indicated the copse beyond and away from the trail. Rinoa gave him a peculiar look.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Really."

She was quiet, searching him, clearly startled and unsure of what to make of his suggestion. Such spontaneity, such deviance from the prescribed way was not like him, and he knew it, but that did not deter him. In moments, her look of astonishment gradually broke into a smile.

"You sure we won't get lost?" she asked.

"We might."

She studied him a moment longer, her smile never diminishing. "Well, then. Lead the way."

Squall stepped off the worn track and onto the soft, springy forest floor, carving an uphill route through rhododendron and ancient pine with Rinoa close at his side. They edged around fallen limbs and boulders covered in downy lichen, trod over roots that writhed above the earth, and eventually started a long, steep ascent to the summit of a hill. When they had reached the top, both were breathing heavily and moving considerably slower than when they had started out. There, finally, they reached another flat plane.

The trees stood apart from one another in the glade at the hill's crest—and they were not evergreen, but deciduous, their fallen leaves creating a vibrant, sunlight-dappled mosaic of color along the ground. Pale autumn light filtered in through glassy, veined leaves overhead.

Rinoa went to a bald slab of rock sprawled across one side of the glade, pulling off her backpack and easing herself to the ground.

"I think this is a good place for a break," she announced. She didn't wait for his answer, but started pulling the blanket out of her backpack. Squall helped her spread it over the dry, flat stone and took his place beside her. Only a few minutes had passed before Rinoa gathered up both packs and started pulling out their contents.

"You ready for lunch?" she asked, although it was evident to him that they were having lunch anyway, regardless of what he said. When Squall agreed, she started handing him things—a bottle of water, a sandwich, a bag with some fruit. As they ate, they shared what they had. Rinoa would reach across and fish out a cluster of grapes or a slice of apple, sitting cross-legged and facing him. Every now and then she would toss a corner of bread or a morsel of meat to Angelo, who lay on the ground at the rock's base.

"So what do you think?" Rinoa asked in the midst of their meal.

"What do you mean?"

"Hiking, being out here and not in the Garden. Personally, I think this was a pretty good idea."

Squall shrugged. "I wouldn't have pegged you for the hiking type."

Her lips curled into a tight-lipped smirk. "I thought we'd do something different. I could've suggested we go out to a nice dinner or to a concert, but that wouldn't have been stress-relieving for you at all. I haven't hiked much in the past, but that doesn't mean that I don't like it. And you're avoiding the question. I think you enjoy being out here. In fact, I know you do."

She'd trapped him and he knew it. In the past, Squall would have found her tenaciousness galling; but now, there was something about it that he couldn't help but like…Though that didn't mean he was going to simply give her what she wanted.

"If you already knew the answer, why did you ask?"

"Because I wanted to hear you say it. But I'll take that answer as a confirmation that I was right, anyway." Her eyes glowed with an eager, devious glint.

"And what if I said you were wrong?"

"I'd be disappointed, and I'd tell you I was sorry for dragging you out to do something you didn't like. But I'm not wrong, so I don't have to worry about that." Rinoa took a bite from a slice of apple, watching him carefully. Squall took his time answering.

"Fine, I wouldn't necessarily object to coming back."

"That's better…You know, you're annoying as hell," she teased. "You always make things endlessly more difficult than they need to be.—Squall, don't even say it, I already know. 'Whatever.'"

He stared after her for an instant. "Since you seem to already know everything I'm going to say, or _think_ that you do, maybe I'll just stop talking."

"Please don't. See, this is what I mean." Rinoa laughed. The sound of her voice swept over him, warming him, cleansing him. Squall felt himself relax, the tension in his muscles releasing, the stress that hovered over his thoughts dissipating. The Garden seemed worlds away, and in that moment only he and Rinoa existed, shut off from the world in a closed glade that they had found and that only they knew.

Squall collected the remnants of their lunch and set the backpacks away from them, giving him space to lie back across the open rock face.

"In all seriousness, though," she asked gently, looking down at him, "how are you feeling? Better than the other day?"

"Yeah, I am."

Rinoa smiled softly before mirroring his actions, lying down and moving close to him—close, but without touching him. Wind stirred in the trees above them, the silky whisper from the brush of leaves, but nothing else moved. There was a part of him that longed for her to drop the caution that she had adopted in recent months. He knew she was only trying to give him space, let him move at his own desired rate; but at times like the one at hand, he wished that she would take up her resigned boldness, to close the gap between them as she would have in the past.

But she didn't, and Squall still wouldn't, couldn't initiate the contact on his own, even when they were absolutely alone without the threat of anyone finding them. He didn't know why. His own hesitation frustrated him to no end, but even that shame could not ward off the embarrassment of simply not knowing what to do to express his affection to her.

Beside him, Rinoa's breathing had deepened; she was still, tranquil. Another breeze rustled through the trees, carrying the rich cinnamon scent of dried leaves. Squall heard the single voice of a songbird overhead. The sunlight was warm and soothing on his face and through the thin layer of his jacket, and soon he had drifted off as well.

He didn't know how long he'd slept, but when he awoke, the sun had already started its descent into the western skies. Next to him, Rinoa was sitting up and stretching.

"Sorry…Didn't mean to wake you," she said as Squall started to pull himself up stiffly.

"No, it's okay—we should probably get going, anyway."

They decided to take a different route, moving northward to descend into the valley floor below, where Squall hoped to find a path that would lead them between the hills and back to the thicket at the edge of the Garden's grounds. While more roundabout, it would avoid the steep, strenuous scales over and across the hills; he wasn't certain, but he thought it would provide a simpler way back.

As they moved out of the glade and started downhill, the vegetation thinned and opened, and the vista unfolded before them. Sheer hills rose and fell, running to the base of the powerful, rugged, snow-covered mountains that lay beyond. They both paused to take in the sight: the mountains, the brilliant, cloudless sky, and the hills whose fiery yellows, oranges, and reds blazed in the afternoon light. Rinoa looked up at him with a contended smile as they started back on their way.

In the valley floor, they came to a farmstead where only the parched stalks of the autumn harvest remained in the leveled fields. They skirted around the wooden enclosure of a paddock with grazing cattle and plunged back into the forest. It was, at times, slow going. Though they had avoided the climbs over the foothills, the untamed brush was often difficult to navigate, snaring their clothing and forcing them to slow their pace.

They were trudging through a hedge of knotted bush and low-hanging branches when Rinoa stopped just ahead of him, motionless and alert. There was a crackle of snapping twigs as Angelo barreled towards her, but Rinoa swiftly crouched to the ground and caught the dog by the collar, slipping her free hand around Angelo's muzzle. It was then that Squall saw what they did—a stag, poised for flight in the clearing in front of them.

The animal was beautiful. It was regal, even in its fear: massive yet elegant, with antlers that were full and branched, a stately hold to its head, and a bearing lithe but strong. They had caught it unawares. Its dark, glossy eyes were huge and round, its nostrils flared and its ears raised, the thick muscles of its hindquarters bunched in readiness to spring away.

There was a grisly, yawning wound from its neck to its shoulder.

A fresh, glistening gout of blood oozed out as the stag watched them, coursing down its slender leg to pool in the grass below. Shredded muscle quivered from its tense, rigid stance. Squall couldn't imagine what would have caused such a deep wound. An injury taken as it fled a predator, a sharp protruding branch that bore into its neck as it ran? Or an attack from the predator itself, whatever it may have been? To his knowledge, there were few animals—if any—in the forest here that could cause that sort of harm.

Squall lowered himself next to Rinoa, fluidly, slowly so as not to frighten it into fleeing. He could hear Angelo's low, throaty growl next to him, but Rinoa's grip on her was strong and forbidding. Rinoa was intent, expressionless, but he could see the distress in her eyes.

Through the stillness came a soft grunt with each of the stag's labored breaths. The only other sound, Squall realized, was the chatter of a brook that cut through the clearing, a serene melody that made the sight before them all the more hideous. The stag looked away and opened its mouth to pant, its ribcage heaving. It was as if, for the moment, the animal had forgotten their presence in its turmoil and pain.

If he had had his gunblade, Squall thought, he would have put the animal out of its misery with a single shot. But he didn't, so all they could do was watch it suffer and part from it with the certainty that it would either slowly bleed to death or be found by other predators lured to the scent of its blood; in either case, a gradual, brutal death.

Except—Rinoa needed no weapon.

The thought clenched in his stomach, worse than the view of the animal before him. He tried to expel it from his mind, revolted that the idea would even occur to him. But it was already there, and before he could stop himself, he had wondered _what she_ _could do_, if she could stop its breathing with neither weapon nor her bare hands, with only a thought.

She could; he knew she could.

When the tightness released from his chest, Squall breathed deeply, sucking in air soundlessly and fighting to bar the notion from finding its way to him again. But trying to not to think of it brought memories bubbling up to the surface: the times that he had watched her barrages of magic as they fought their way through Galbadian soldiers. –Not the illusory ParaMagic that they used, but something _real_ that seared and paralyzed and froze, as if she had lost control and did not know what she did.

It had not happened often, only in the most desperate of circumstances or when something, some dreadful provocation forced her into it. Twice in the Lunatic Pandora, when he was still unsure of what was happening; once in the castle, and once against Ultimecia herself. He knew even then that what he was seeing was something merely nascent.

The stag moved off.

Either it had decided the two humans hiding behind the bushes posed no threat, or the broken creature was so resigned to its fate that it simply did not care what threat they posed. It lowered its noble head, jaw still hanging open, and limped away.

After a few minutes, Rinoa released Angelo, who rushed into the clearing, circling where the stag had been, nose to the ground. Rinoa and Squall were slower to rise. They stood across from one another, Rinoa looking to him with grief. Squall struggled to check the guilt that had settled over him, to keep his expression clean of it. Did she know? Was her drawn, sorrowful expression for the stag, or for the careless abandon of his imagination?

Rinoa stayed close to him the rest of the way, a breath of distance separating them, but few words passed between them. Eventually they found the trail once again, and followed it the way they had come, back towards the Garden.

Where they came once again to the Garden's training grounds, the trail broadened. The sun was sinking behind the ridge of mountains, and indigo dusk was settling over the forest. The huge moon was starting to rise.

Rinoa moved next to him as they reached the widened trail, and Squall took her hand in his. She did not seem surprised by his impulse, as he had often feared she would be if he took such initiative—she did not tease him or laugh or pull away, she did not even look at him. She twined her fingers with his and gripped his hand, hard.

It was a small gesture, laughably miniscule, but it was a connection, an assurance, a need.

The radiance of the Garden through the trees was an unexpectedly welcome sight. Squall was ready to be out of the forest. The stag had etched an image into his mind from which he wanted to escape—but not one of bloodshed and wretched suffering, but one of sick violation. Squall knew that Rinoa could not have known what he thought, but he could not shake the feeling that she could see into his exposed soul. And it was not a feeling of violation and intrusion _by her_ that came about from that idea, but a sense of wrongdoing and desecration _by him._

He wanted only to protect her. He didn't know what from.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>

Unfortunately, I won't be able to post updates again until after the holiday season has passed. The next couple of weeks are pretty busy, so expect Chapter IV to appear sometime in early January.

I want to express my thanks again for the reviews on the past two chapters. They mean a lot, and I appreciate every one of them. (: Thanks!


	4. Chapter IV

**Chapter IV**

Rinoa had never been summoned to Squall's office before.

It was late morning, a Wednesday, and she had been following the Garden's curving hallways from the library to the quad when she'd spotted Zell rounding a bend from the direction of the dormitories, his gate quick and purposeful. He had waved to catch her eye, and motioned for her to wait.

"There you are—I've been looking for you." His heavy breathing hinted at a search made in haste.

"Oh?"

"Squall wants you in his office as soon as you can."

Rinoa couldn't hide her bafflement. "What for?"

Zell had shaken his head. "He'll explain when you get there—I've still got to fetch Selphie and Irvine. I'll be up there as soon as I find them." He hadn't waited for an answer, but started off again, moving briskly past her, just short of jogging.

Rinoa stood in the glass-walled elevator, staring outwards as the ground floor dropped soundlessly away beneath her. She had been in Squall's office a handful of times in the two months or so since he'd settled in there, but never had she been so much as formally invited in, let alone bidden. There was a strange thrill to the diversion in the usual monotony of her mornings, but as she reached the third floor, Rinoa found herself doubting that the cause of the summons could be anything good. She sensed it from Zell's urgency, from his refusal to elaborate, from the fact that she was being _summoned_ and not merely invited_._ Squall would not extend such a request if it were not something serious.

When she opened the door to the innermost room of the office suite, Rinoa found Squall seated behind his desk, brow furrowed in his familiar expression of concentration. Two chairs had been pulled up to the front of the desk, and Quistis already occupied one. Both the Commander and his Lieutenant looked up at her entrance. Neither, Rinoa gathered, had been speaking prior to her arrival.

Rinoa slipped into the chair next to Quistis, careful in her movements; she was uneasy, but she would not let that show. She greeted her friend warmly, but as she turned to face Squall, she found that his gaze had already dropped back to the packet of papers before him. That was when she noticed that his desk had been cleared save for four letters arranged alongside one another on the corner of his desk, in addition to the larger folder that he was reading. One of the letters, she noted, was addressed to her.

Just as Rinoa was also noticing that Quistis already had hers in-hand and opened, Squall paused his perusal and handed Rinoa's to her, adding only, "This is yours."

The envelope was stuffed thickly, but was immaculate and ceremonial in its formality. Rinoa ran a thumb over the crimson, embossed letters of her name before eyeing the sender on the return address: _Supreme Tribunal of the Republic of Galbadia._ She knew of no such office in her home nation, and opened the envelope with mounting apprehension.

As she unfolded the stack of papers, she started to skim. She had only gone halfway down the page when she stopped and looked between Squall and Quistis, alarmed and confused. Their faces were grim as they awaited her reaction, but were otherwise inscrutable.

"We're being asked to testify?" Rinoa's voice sliced through their silence like a knife against taut flesh; even so, her voice sounded timid and distant to her own ears.

"Yes." Squall shuffled the papers in front of him. She knew he was delaying, collecting his answer as he reorganized and tidied the leaflets of his packet. She recognized suddenly that Squall did not have one of the letters that the rest of them did—his, instead, was the folder and the stack of paper, vastly larger than their already hefty bundles of bureaucratic letters, figures, and appendices. Beside her, Quistis neither moved nor made a sound.

"Galbadia," Squall started at last, "and its international observers have decided that they have collected sufficient evidence to make a strong case, and they are ready to begin their trial. As a final addition to the evidence that they have already accumulated, they have sought out those victims that they determined were most affected by the…indicted and have asked them to testify before the Tribunal." His voice was deliberate, steady, as if he were weighing each word before he spoke them. He sounded like an official reading an announcement, well removed from the situation and without any personal connection to what he was reporting.

Squall continued, "They have determined that the six of us were particularly impacted, personally witnessed some of the greatest atrocities that were committed, and can best testify to the character of the accused." He paused. "The charges they lay are dire but not entirely unfounded."

Rinoa searched his face for any sign of his own thoughts, his own feelings on what they were being asked to do. When she found nothing, she looked back down at the papers in her lap.

"War crimes…" she said, her voice emerging as only a murmur. She could think of nothing else to say.

"Primarily those of torture and ill-treatment of prisoners of war, inhumane actions against civilian populations, and devastation not justified by military necessity," Squall answered. He seemed about to continue when the door to his office opened. Selphie, Irvine, and Zell filed inside, mutely, gravely, as if they already knew the nature of the meeting. They stationed themselves behind Rinoa and Quistis as Squall handed each their respective letters.

The three began to tear open the envelopes, but Squall did not wait for them to finish reading.

"As you may or may not have already heard, we are being asked by the interim government of Galbadia and its international monitors to testify against Seifer and his chief accomplices as war criminals."

Their movements stilled, and they listened, attentive and intent.

Squall repeated the speech he had already given her, and as Rinoa watched him, she discovered that she was witnessing a change that she had oft longed to see, but had never been able to experience firsthand. Squall spoke neither as the reluctant teenager that had been thrust into a position of power he'd never wanted, nor as the distant, taciturn man that they knew in the privacy of their personal lives. He was the Commander, strong and perfectly composed in their moment of turmoil. Yet even that did not make his news any easier to bear.

"The trial is to receive international oversight," he was saying, "with verdict and sentences to be determined and passed down collectively by Galbadian and international officials alike. I've already received word from Esthar and Trabia Garden that they have received similar summons, and they do not intend to maintain their stakes in the trial."

"…Their stakes in the trial?" Irvine questioned from behind Rinoa.

This time, it was Quistis to answer. "Dollet, Timber, Balamb, Trabia, Esthar, Fisherman's Horizon, and Balamb and Trabia Gardens have been asked to each send a delegate to act concurrently as judge and jury."

"I have recused on behalf of our Garden, and Trabia's headmaster indicated she would do the same," Squall added immediately. "Esthar and Fisherman's Horizon have also backed out. That leaves the other four countries, plus Galbadia's own contingent of justices and prosecutors. The delegates of the participating countries have already met, it would seem. All the evidence provided in your documents is their work."

After a moment of contemplative silence, Irvine spoke up again. "…Seems like there are plenty of others that they could levy with the same sorts of charges. And the person ultimately responsible is…well, gone, and out of their reach."

"Therein lies the problem," Squall said simply, letting his words hang over them without explanation.

Selphie must have taken some time to glance over the document, for she was the next to issue a challenge, indicating a page in her hands. "Seifer isn't the only one charged here…Fujin and Raijin, a handful of Galbadian generals and officials from Galbadia Garden. But…the offenses they have listed against him are far more severe. Even if convicted, Fujin and Raijin would spend a few years in prison at most, but Seifer…"

"They're making him a scapegoat," Rinoa heard herself say.

She could feel the eyes of her friends avert from their letters to her—but she was most keenly conscious of Squall's placid, sturdy stare. As her gaze met his, Rinoa knew that _that_ was the problem to which he had alluded but that he would not himself communicate. He watched unwaveringly as she continued to speak.

"Galbadia is left with the responsibility for a massive, devastating war that affected the entire world, caused immense destruction in a number of countries, and led to the deaths of thousands. How could they fall back and claim that the person that led them, the person that they could point to for culpability is a sorceress that exists generations in the future? No one would buy that, even those that know the truth in it. So what better idea than to hand responsibility to the next in line—the leader's mouthpiece, her connection to this world, the person that gave her commands to the Galbadians and acted as the principal general of their military?

"They throw the blame on Seifer for all their most heinous acts…Collect evidence and testimony from victims, and invite the entire world to watch and participate in the process to proclaim and uphold the fairness of it. When he's convicted, they have someone to blame for everything that happened, and Galbadia can wash its hands of the whole thing."

It was only when she stopped talking that Rinoa realized how quickly she'd been speaking and heard the stab of anger in her own voice. The Galbadian plan was a mockery of justice, but it was brilliant, and it would work. It was an outrage.

Rinoa remembered the day that Seifer had been apprehended. She'd heard about it on a news program the evening after it had happened. Galbadian authorities, escorted by a convoy of well-armed Balambian officials, found him on a dock in the harbor of Balamb's capital. They had had no trouble discovering his whereabouts or reaching him. Seifer, Fujin, and Raijin had been frequenting the place daily, and had made no effort to hide themselves, as if they had been expecting, awaiting their arrest.

He had been fishing when they found him, sitting at the water's edge. When they read out the arrest warrant, Seifer had simply handed himself over. He had made no effort to resist, and neither had his two companions.

But before that thought could provoke any sympathy for him, Rinoa recalled a series of vivid, piercing memories that almost made his trial seem justifiable. The bombing of Trabia Garden was one. The day that Seifer had thrown her at the feet of Sorceress Adel without a trace of remorse or mercy was another. And the third came from stories told to her by Selphie, Quistis, and Zell: torture of political prisoners had indeed happened at Seifer's hands in the D-District prison, and Squall had been one of his most tormented victims. The trial may be wrong, but Seifer was far from blameless, all the same.

The smothering silence that had stretched over them was burst by Zell's uncertain voice. "What about Edea? Is she not being tried? I don't see her name mentioned anywhere in here."

"On the second page," Quistis responded. "It says she and Rinoa are being pardoned. The Tribunal has sufficient evidence that their actions were committed outside of their control, and that they therefore cannot be held accountable for them. And their aid in ending the war did not go unnoticed."

Rinoa felt a sick, plummeting sensation in the pit of her stomach at the mention of her name. She turned to the page in question, and indeed found what Quistis had cited…Although her letter surely differed from theirs, as it addressed her personally. "_The Tribunal and the nation of Esthar have determined not to bring up charges against you for your part in the release of the Sorceress Adel for the following reasons…"_

"Couldn't the same case be made for Seifer, then?" Irvine asked. "I mean, in the trial, he could just as easily say that he was under Ultimecia's influence the entire time and couldn't control what he did."

"They won't accept that." Rinoa stared down at the papers in her lap as she spoke. "Ultimecia could only possess other sorceresses, remember? …And if they have the evidence to excuse Edea and me on those grounds, then they have the same evidence that would prevent Seifer from being considered innocent."

Before the dreadful stillness could seize them again, Squall finally spoke.

"I'm sure you all are wondering why the letters were delivered to me and not to each of you, and why I've summoned you here at all. First of all, let me say that as regards your testimony as an affected individual: that is your personal decision to make. You may accept or decline the summons as you see fit, and should you choose to testify, you may do so in whatever manner you choose. That business is your own, not mine.

"However, the letters were handed over to me with a slew of confidentiality warnings to pass on to all of you…Do not discuss this with anyone outside of yourselves, and if you talk with one another, do not do it within earshot of anyone else. The letters were given to me as part of a nondescript package instead of being sent directly to you so that no one would even know that you have been asked to participate in the trial. And additionally…" Squall held up the large packet that was his version of the letters they each possessed.

"There is another matter. While the personal testimony is a merely a request, and though I've already recused as a judge, Balamb Garden as a separate entity has been subpoenaed by the international community to submit a report on our involvement in the war, our encounters with Seifer and the Galbadian forces, our understanding of Seifer's role in the instigation of and participation in the war, and our plans on the oversight of Galbadia Garden. This is a mandate, and they have a strict deadline on its completion and submission to the Tribunal. Therefore, each of you will assist in the preparation, writing, and editing of it, to be completed in the next three weeks."

He began to delegate assignments with only wordless nods of consent in answer. At the end, Squall concluded, "Rinoa, although you're not a part of the Garden's command structure, you've been named specifically among those they expect to contribute to the report. You'll assist me in editing the final document."

Rinoa, too, could only nod. She knew of nothing more to say, and it disturbed her deeply that the Tribunal had called upon her in particular to add to the testimony when they must know that she was not a member of the Garden. She kept her expression in check, willing herself not to reveal the distress that had coiled around her heart and lungs like a python constricting its prey, squeezing her unremittingly and leaving her enervated and shaky.

"If you've no other questions, you're all dismissed," Squall said—but it was Selphie who softly interrupted before they could turn to leave.

"Squall…What are you going to do? Are you going to testify?"

Squall seemed startled by the question, even if hardly a trace of that surprise appeared on his features. In his instant of hesitation, they watched him motionlessly, suspended in wait for his answer.

_They want his guidance_, Rinoa thought to herself.

Seifer could not go free after what he had done, but the outcome of the Galbadian Tribunal would undoubtedly be more unsparing than any of them would have imagined. And despite all he had done, Seifer had been one of them, a child in their orphanage and student in their Garden; he had been her boyfriend, so many lifetimes ago. They were all shaken by what they had heard, and in that moment, they needed Squall's calm assurance and whatever wisdom their leader could give, even if it was a simple as knowing what action he would take.

_And I need his guidance, too, _she mused._ We all do._

Rinoa could tell that Squall did not want to answer. But when he did, there seem to be a collective breath of relief and a slack in the unforgiving tension, though no one else moved or spoke or even sighed.

"No. I'll submit Balamb Garden's report, as has been requested by the participating countries of the Tribunal. But I don't intend to offer a personal testimony."

Selphie nodded, and neither she nor any of the others had anything more to say.

Rinoa rose from her seat as the others were shuffling out of the room. At the door, she cast a quick glance back at Squall, who had spread the documents over the surface of his desk and was again poring over them. There were lines of fatigue and tense focus across his countenance, but he sat straight and solid and poised, a chiseled sculpture weathering the storm that doubtless battered against him. She could not tell what he felt.

Rinoa wanted nothing more than to say something to him and for him to say something to her, but she didn't know what that would be—some word of comfort, maybe, an encouragement or reassurance, or a simple "Don't worry"; something, anything that would relieve the creeping dread that had sunk into her bones and clutched at her chest.

Perhaps, though, there was nothing either of them _could_ say. She let the door slide shut behind her.

* * *

><p>She woke before dawn started to break—that dusky, ethereal moment when the blackness is touched with the darkest of blues, when the hope of light graces the sleeping earth though the terrors of the night still roam, just before they start to slink back to their unseen burrows to hide away from the coming day.<p>

She woke to pain, or at least to the memory of pain, panting and drenched in sweat.

Rinoa dragged herself up to a sitting position, looking about her frantically in fleeting confusion. The curtains of sleep still hung heavy over her consciousness, and it took her a moment to pull them away and remember where she was and why. She was afraid—that was all she knew. Her heart was hammering against the wall of her chest so hard that she could see the movement of the thin fabric of her white t-shirt. Rain pattered on the ledge outside her window. She was afraid and she was alone.

Curbing her waking panic, Rinoa cast her gaze to Angelo, nestled in her dog-bed in the corner of the room. The dog was nothing but an inky shadow in the pre-dawn haze, but there was something about the knowledge of something else _alive_, so close to her and in her presence, that was consoling to her. Rinoa was sweltering, but she pulled the sheets of her bed around her shoulders anyway, as if they might protect her from whatever had disturbed her sleep.

It was not the first time that Rinoa had awakened in this manner, suddenly and inexplicably before morning. But there were no dreams to attribute it to. What dreams she could remember were typical—fuzzy, scattered images, scenarios reflecting the petty anxieties of everyday life. Rarely did she have nightmares, but those were also normal, usually trivial, and never woke her. She did not wake to dreams—she woke to lingering pain.

A hushed ache was all that was left of the searing, unutterable agony that she had encountered in her sleep. Rinoa could not say what it was or why she had felt it or from whence it had come, but it had been excruciating beyond what words could describe; and she had _known_ it, she had experienced it and endured it. It had been no dream, and the fact that she could conjure back the vivid recollection of it was testament to that. The pain was vicious, blazing, and internal. Like liquid fire that pulsed, roaring through her vessels with each pump of her heart; molten metal that burned from within, that shredded and scorched through tissue, boiled her blood, and melted her bones away to bubbling, jellied ooze.

The brutal, ruthless pains came sporadically from one night to the next, but she had always forgotten them by late morning…Or didn't forget, but just didn't think of them until they came again. They were like all horrors in the nighttime: with the arrival of sunlight and the routine of the day, they were gone, chased away to the dimmest corners of the periphery. What seemed horrible in the darkness was farcical in the daytime, and the memory of fear became nothing more than a vague sensation that was extinguished by waking thought.

But now was not the day, and even with the promise of morning's imminence, Rinoa was certain she would not calm enough to sleep again.

When her breath had steadied, she lay back down, feeling her clothing sticking to her sweat-slick skin. She opened her hands at looked at the pads of her fingertips as if she were seeing them for the first time, studying them though she could make out only their blurry silhouettes. If she expected something to happen, she could not imagine what it might be.

Rinoa told herself she was being ridiculous. Angelo was with her in the room; she shared a SeeD dormitory suite with Selphie and Quistis, who would be asleep in their rooms on either side of her own; morning was well on its way. There was nothing she need fear…and yet her hands trembled and fright continued to grip her without mercy or explanation. More than anything, she wished Squall were with her. She would not need to be afraid if he were there, she knew.

Sometime in the greyness of early morning, she fell back to sleep.

* * *

><p>The idea to visit Galbadia came to her without prompting, but lurked and nagged until she finally conceded defeat. Two weeks before Squall and Irvine were scheduled to leave for Galbadia Garden, Rinoa spoke to her father for the first time in months to tell him that she wished to spend a few days at home.<p>

Home—it felt strange to grant Caraway's manse that privileged label. Home was more than a house and a location, and the things that she associated with home—comfort, warmth, friends, people she cared for and that cared for her in return—were in Balamb Garden, not the stiff, baroque mansion in the drear of dishonored Galbadia. Her father's residence had not been her home for years.

Yet Rinoa, as much as she tried, could not escape the incessant guilt that whispered in her ear day after day. Carraway was still her father, and in his own distant, rigid, exasperating way, he still cared about her. The ridiculous stunt he had tried to pull last time she was there, when he'd set the automatic locks to trap her in the front parlor; the desperate contacts to have her released from prison and to have the charges against her for assaulting the sorceress dropped…Caraway had odd, roundabout ways of showing affection, but now that Rinoa's days of teenage rebellion were behind her, she could see that he did not act out of controlling possessiveness or an attempt to preserve his own reputation, as she had once thought he did. He did so because she was still his daughter.

That understanding inspired unfamiliar traces of shame, a shame that only propagated as she tried to talk herself out of a visit. There was no better time, and she had no excuse not to; she was far from busy at Balamb Garden. So at the beginning of the week, Rinoa found herself calling her father and telling him of her intentions. It was a housekeeper that answered at first, but as soon as she heard Caraway's brusque voice on the other end, Rinoa quickly recited cursory greetings and then went straight to her point. She had no desire to go through the particulars of polite conversation with the aging general.

"Squall and Irvine are going to Galabadia Garden at the beginning of next month. If you aren't busy, I thought I would get a ride with them to come home for a few days. They have to switch trains in Deling anyway, and I thought that since they were already headed in that direction, I would tag along and then come back to Balamb with them the weekend that they return."

She was answered with a long silence on the other end.

"What day?"

"Evening of the first Tuesday."

When they had settled the details, Caraway gruffly announced that he would have her bedroom prepared for her arrival, and then the conversation was over. As the phone clicked into its receiver, Rinoa had exhaled deeply, feeling as though she had not breathed a single time throughout the exchange.

Mid-week, sitting with Quistis and Selphie at a picnic table in their favorite courtyard, Rinoa revealed her plans to her friends. They were having lunch beneath a sky of shining cerulean, as puffy clouds trundled off towards the mountains and brown, brittle leaves skittered across the flagstones at their feet. Their moods were the lightest they had been since the news of the week before. As the rain of the weekend and the week's first days had cleared, so too had their gloom…At least in part.

"Have you told Squall already?" Quistis's smile was shrewd and knowing as she exchanged glances with Selphie. Rinoa could have found their teasing irritating—but she failed to suppress a grin right along with them.

"I have."

Squall had, in fact, been the first to know. She had gone to him even before calling her father, wanting to make him aware of her plans before she went through with them. There was a part of her that had wished he would offer her some sort of advice on the matter; she was fraught with uncertainty, and for him to tell her she was doing the right thing would have greatly eased her nervousness. But the other part of her knew better than to expect that of him. Giving counsel on personal matters was a skill that the Commander did not possess, and, in fact, that he did not even desire to possess.

What mattered, though, was that he had listened. She had explained her idea to him, and he had not questioned her judgment or asked her if she was certain that she _really_ wanted to do that. She had not poured out the effusion of her worries to him—something told her that he understood without her saying anything more.

And in the end, Rinoa had found his quiet nod of acceptance more encouraging than she could have hoped. "It won't be a problem. I'll make the arrangements with the train," was all he had said.

"And does he approve?" asked Selphie.

"Why wouldn't he? All he has to do is call the train company and tell them that they'll have an additional passenger in the SeeD cabin."

"Yes, but…He'll be the one needing to go to Caraway's doorstep and beg for your release if your father decides not to let you come back."

Rinoa rolled her eyes and grimaced. She couldn't deny the humor in the jest, but it still embarrassed her that the group of SeeDs had been caught amidst her quarrels with her father when last she'd been at the mansion.

"That won't happen, I promise."

"Good, because we'd rather that you stay here," Selphie concluded with a smile.

"Here you are," a voice came behind her, smooth and saccharine. Rinoa turned to see Irvine strolling down the steps outside of the corridor between the atrium and the infirmary, approaching them. She waved to him in greeting…Though there was something different about him, but she couldn't place what it was.

"Good afternoon, ladies," he said with a debonair grin.

Eyeing him, Quistis observed, "You're chipper today."

"Just got back from town."

"And?"

Irvine slid his fingers around the front of his hat and removed it in a genial, gentlemanly gesture. Rinoa was nearly floored in shock.

"Y-your hair!" she stammered. "What did you do?" It was shorter—_much _shorter. The long ponytail was gone, and instead, he sported a neat, smart trim; different for him, certainly, but…it did look good, she had to admit.

"That wasn't really the reaction I'd been hoping for, Rinoa," Irvine remarked with a feigned touch of hurt.

Quistis was already chuckling, and Rinoa joined in her laughter. Selphie, however, was gaping in astonishment. After her momentary stun had passed, she bounded to her feet and went to him, looking him over with a critical gaze. When she had finished that, she ran a judging hand through his hair as if that might appease her. Irvine seemed suddenly wary under her scrutiny.

"So? How do you like it?" he asked of her.

"It looks great!" Selphie blurted. "—But…Why'd you cut it?"

"Well…" Irvine slipped his hat back onto his head and moved to the table, taking the empty place next to Rinoa. Selphie resumed her own spot, waiting for his explanation. "I was thinking with this upcoming trip to Galbadia Garden…Squall will be with me this time around, but after this, I'll have to do these diplomatic missions to the Garden on my own. Squall's entrusting me with this responsibility, and I want to make sure I look as professional as possible to do it."

Rinoa thought that was commendable enough, but—"Did Squall ask you to do that?" she demanded. She knew Squall had insisted on the officers wearing their uniforms during work hours, but if he'd asked this of Irvine, he'd gone a bit too far.

"Absolutely not," Irvine seemed surprised by the question. "I mean, hell, I spent half my childhood and all my adolescence at that Garden. Students and instructors and administrators there still know me and have certain expectations out of me, and I want everyone there to know that I'm there doing a job and that I mean what I'm doing. I'm not the same person I was when I left. I'm representing Balamb now."

For all Irvine's joking and flippancy, Rinoa had to grant that he knew how to handle serious situations when they counted most. She admired what he'd done. Even such a small gesture was a signal of his commitment to his assignment and his duty, and his respect for his Commander. She could read from Selphie's enamored gaze that her friend was pleased, too.

"Did you know that Rinoa is coming with you?" Selphie asked. "At least part of the way, I mean."

"Oh yeah?" Irvine draped an arm over Rinoa's shoulders. "How come?"

Rinoa gave him a tight smile. "Paying Deling City a visit while you and Squall are taking care of your own business."

He winced a bit. "Doesn't sound like the most pleasant of trips, but I know I'll enjoy having your company along the way. And I'm sure Squall will, too." That inspired laughter around the table—friendly, laid-back laughter that had not come so easily to them over the course of the last week.

After a while, Zell found his way outside and joined them—with his own choice commentary on the change in Irvine's appearance—and then only Squall himself was missing. They talked and kidded among themselves, and gradually they finished their meals and drifted back into the Garden to resume their duties. Rinoa was the last to leave.

* * *

><p>On Saturday evening, the last weekend of the month and scant days before they were due to depart, Squall was not in his quarters.<p>

Rinoa had scarcely seen him of late. After the time they had spent together a mere three weeks ago, she had hoped that things would change—that he would find more time for himself and for her, that he had learned the value of a break from his work. But there were no breaks to be had, and she could not fault Squall for that. Even if he had taken such lessons to heart, there were new burdens that had since reared hideous, misshapen heads: like a hydra, with each head conquered, new ones, worse ones sprouted forth, snapping glistening, greedy jaws. They were beyond his control, or hers; and their only choice was to face each one that burst forward in cruel challenge.

Their hike seemed like it could have happened years ago, though the reminiscence of it remained bright and fresh in her mind. The feel of their walk—its peace and its seclusion and its sanctity—had not faded from her consciousness, but so much had happened in the meantime.

Rinoa knocked on the solid wooden door of his office. When there had been no answer at his apartment, she had been certain that she would find him here instead. The sound of his voice, deep and cool, confirmed her suspicions.

"Come in," she heard him say.

She pushed the door open. The only light in the room was from a single desk lamp and the biting radiance of his terminal screen. They gave his desk sufficient light, but abandoned the rest of the room to murky darkness. The scent of coffee wafted in the air, stale and tepid. There was an empty mug on a coaster at the corner of his desk, which Rinoa imagined he'd used many times throughout the day. His desk was otherwise littered with papers, uncharacteristically unkempt, though there seemed to be order even in the disarray.

"I had a feeling it was you," Squall said. He was framed in the pale shine from his computer, weary but awake. As it was the weekend, he was out of his uniform and dressed plainly, looking more the part of a student swamped in homework than the sedulous Commander.

"Who else would it be?" Rinoa tried to joke, but the comment seemed to fall flat, even to her. Squall shrugged, without answer.

"Grab one of those chairs," he indicated the two that sat around a table in a corner of the office. "You can help me while you're here."

In compliance with the Tribunal's subpoena, Rinoa was scheduled to spend the following day with him editing their final report. Squall had already given her a number of drafts to look over, but the document would need to be polished and ready for submission by the end of the day on Sunday. The Commander had committed Monday for his final preparations with Irvine before their departure on Tuesday, and was thus left with a mere twenty-four hours to perfect a testimony detailing an entire war that would go before the review of the international court. Squall, understandably, had had no time for anything else.

He and the other four had had barely a moment to breathe over the last two weeks, as they had set aside routine duties and almost every scrap of free time to finish their segments of the manuscript. Rinoa had done whatever Squall asked of her, but even that had not come close to the time the rest of them spent collecting evidence and writing. And Squall, of course, had taken the lion's share on himself.

Rinoa carried one of the chairs around the desk to his side and settled into it, then started scanning the endless paragraphs in their small, tight print, the charts and columns crammed with statistics and comparisons, and the images that had been added as visual supplements. Squall scrolled to a section that he was in the process of rewriting and asked her to read over it.

"I don't like the way this is worded—" Rinoa leaned over him to reach the keyboard, cut out a sentence, and started typing a new one. From behind her, she could feel Squall's quiet regard as he followed the new string of words. As Rinoa finished and sat back, she could tell he approved.

"That sounds better," he agreed.

They continued like that for some time: deleting and rephrasing, shifting paragraphs from one place to another, adding details where there had been none. At times they debated, at others they were in perfect accord. When finally Rinoa glanced at the clock at the edge of his monitor, nearly three hours had passed. It was growing late. Squall, she saw, had leaned back and was looking at the blackness outside the window; the new moon offered no respite from the night.

"We've gotten a fair start on tomorrow's work," he observed, and Rinoa was pleased to trace a note of relief in his voice. It was certainly not the most ideal of circumstances in which to spend time with him, but she was glad for the help she could provide. Yet even that notion could not put her entirely at ease.

"Squall," she asked him, keeping firm control over her voice, "why did they require that I contribute to this? I wasn't a member of the Garden when it happened, and I'm still not."

Squall fell silent. She knew he did not like the question any more than she did.

"I don't know," he said at last. He swiveled his desk chair around to face her instead of the blue-white glare of the screen. Rinoa had the sense that he was trying to get the manuscript out of his sight.

"You weren't the only one they asked for…Quistis and I were named as the primary authors, and they wanted Irvine's input as well, since he served in Galbadia Garden before coming to Balamb. They also wanted Cid. I called him when we received the mandate, and he wrote a substantial section as well. Quistis and I could best explain Balamb's actions during the war and our encounters with Galbadia Garden and the Galbadian military, as well as our future oversight plans. She, Cid, and I were also best suited to give an account of Seifer's behavior leading up to his control of Galbadian forces.

"But you…" he continued, "You I don't understand. I don't know what their intentions are, but I don't like the implications."

And that, Rinoa knew, was why her contribution was merely editing, not writing. As long as they did not understand the purpose of the request, they would do only the minimum that had been asked of them. She lowered her gaze and shook her head slowly. She did not want to imagine what implications Squall read in the Tribunal's commands.

"I don't like this," Squall added. He turned back to his desk and made a sweeping gesture with a hand. "…Any of it."

Rinoa's own sense of the wrongness of it all was matched only by a dogged sense of futility. There was nothing any of them could do in protest without incurring the opposition and condemnation of the international community…And that was nothing any of them dared.

"…I don't either," she said to him at last, softly. "But what other choice do we have?"

"None."

Rinoa didn't know what more to say. Silence drifted between them, and only the subtle, mechanical hum of the computer terminal made any sound.

She reached out to him, laying a hand against his shoulder. The muscle between his neck and shoulder, she found, was knotted and hard as concrete. She couldn't fathom what stress he carried there—she bore her own worries and fears, but as she sat ensconced behind the Garden's walls with hardly a single obligation, the world's problems fell into Squall's hands and demanded to be fixed. The acquaintance with the physical toll of his burdens sent a wave of sad compassion surging through her.

"You should go to bed," Rinoa said, tired—but even her exhaustion did not dull a note of affection in her voice. "We still have to finish this tomorrow."

"…Yeah."

She was surprised at how easily he acquiesced, and in moments he had the document saved and his terminal shut down. The leather of his chair creaked as Squall pulled himself to his feet. Rinoa followed, rising as he turned to face her. She stood across from him for a brief, frozen instant before lifting a hand to brush away a lock of hair from his forehead. The light of the single lamp cast his face in shadow, accentuating the brooding crease of his brow and the dark, heavy marks beneath his eyes. She found herself tracing his weary features, his cheekbones, the stiff line of his jaw. She met his gaze—steely and hard, but not without a flicker of its own tenderness.

The moment was rife with possibility.

But she didn't take it. She lowered her hand and told him, "Go sleep."

Squall nodded without a word in contest. When he flicked off the desk-lamp, the room drowned in darkness.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>

Angelo's gender is something that has often bothered me in the past since the name is, indeed, male. But according to the Final Fantasy Wikia and the Final Fantasy VIII Ultimania Guide, Angelo is female. The Ultimania reveals that her full name is "Sant' Angelo di Roma," or the Angel Saint of Rome…So while the gender of 'Angelo' is wrong, I get the feeling that the FFVIII producers were going for a continuation of Rinoa's angel motif, and I decided to just go along with it. Thanks for pointing that out, though—those are the sorts of details that I worry about stumbling over, and I'm glad that it was mentioned so that I can go back and double-check things.

At any rate, I hope everyone that reads and comes across this story had a wonderful holiday season and that the transition back to school and work isn't too difficult. Thanks again for reading.


	5. Chapter V

**Chapter V**

They parted ways in the flurry of the train station, baggage in-hand and onerous as the current of hastening passengers spilled and roiled about them. Even so late into the evening, there were no signs of a break in the rush of travelers and transport, and they had to fight against the surge to say their farewells.

Eight o'clock came marching nearer to the sounds of bells and droning announcements of platforms and departure times. Irvine and Squall had another connection to catch that would reach Galbadia Garden sometime around midnight, and the chimes of 7:45 heralded the time for them to board. It was a long, arduous trip from Balamb Garden to its isolated sister academy, and Rinoa couldn't help but feel sorry for them both for the ride they must yet endure. While Galbadia Garden lay geographically closer to Balamb than Deling City did, the only train connections to the remote Garden were in the Galbadian capital or further inland, leaving them with little choice in the matter.

Squall had her recite their meeting time for Sunday.

"I should be here at 1:00, for the train departing at 1:30 from Platform 7, and I'm to meet you at the clock in front of the travel center." She gave him a self-contented smile, knowing that she was right.

After that, Squall didn't seem to know what to do to see her off and wish her well on her way. He said a perfunctory sendoff, awkwardly, as the throngs of burdened passengers pushed between and pressed around them. Rinoa didn't think it was a good time to try to embrace him or otherwise, so she parted from him and Irvine with a grin that she hoped would project only confidence…One that would not betray her own discomfiture at their separation, her nervousness at being left alone in Deling City, the home she had forsaken.

"Good luck, Rinoa!" Irvine called over the tumult, waving.

"Same to you guys!" she shouted back. Squall gave an uncomfortable, curt sort of nod, and then he and Irvine were melting into the flow of people in one direction, and she in another. She shuffled and shoved her way through the churning streams of people, over polished floors and up the escalators, then out into the city.

Outside the station, she found the capital exactly as she remembered it: twilit and damp and chilly.

The skies were densely overcast, and city lights made the low-hanging clouds glow with a sickly yellow murk. Car horns blared and tires squealed. People whisked by in their snapping, hurried pace, never paying her or anyone else a second glance if they ever even paid a first. Smells of acrid motor exhaust and wet pavement choked the air.

Bedlam and inflexible orderliness; dignity and decadence; opulence and ugly dearth—the city was a tangled mess of contradictions, and for most of her life, it was the only place she had known.

Rinoa found her way to the stop for the Number 8 bus, waited a few minutes for its arrival, and then boarded to take the accustomed route home. She had insisted that her father not send an escort—she could manage on her own, she had told him without compromise.

From stop to stop, the bus passed the city's major landmarks in turn: the Presidential Residence, the colonnades of the mighty, magnificent museums, and the spotlights, snarling gargoyles, and black iron portcullis of the Galbadian Gate. Though she was too far away to make out the details, Rinoa could easily visualize the graceful statutes of the Gate wielding their great spears, and the surrounding frescos with their graphic scenes of victory over the Holy Dollet Empire. All these things were familiar to her, and yet she felt a strange sense of foreignness upon seeing them again.

_Last time I was here—_she caught herself thinking, but she broke off the line of thought. Those memories were places to which she did not wish to return, at least not yet. She guided her attention away and instead watched as droplets of rainwater raced each other down the window, turning streetlamps and headlights into bleary twinkles as they passed.

Few others disembarked at the stop outside Caraway's estate, and small wonder. The road was a stretch of manors belonging to political officials, affluent businessmen, and foreign emissaries, and the only people that had any business getting off at the bus stop were almost exclusively employees at the resplendent abodes: housekeepers and cooks, cleaners and guardsmen, nannies and butlers. Rinoa knew she looked out of place as she lumbered off the bus, laden with a stuffed backpack and a duffle bag slung over her shoulder, rumpled, travel-worn, and weary. She could feel the stares of the other passengers as she staggered out and onto the sidewalk.

Her approach was utterly devoid of ceremony. The guard in the gatehouse nodded her through, and she mustered only a thin greeting in return. When he offered to help with her baggage, she waved him away with forced thanks. The path past the gatehouse led over the front terrace and up to the entryway with its elegantly wrought doors. There, Rinoa hesitated.

"Miss Rinoa?"

The woman that opened the door was doubtlessly a housekeeper—and one that Rinoa did not recognize. With a brush of her gaze, she sized the stranger up at once: middle-aged with salt-and-pepper hair, a gentle cast to her features, of average build and soft of voice. Rinoa probed her memory for any mention of this domestic that she may have previously buried or cast aside, but she could recall only a letter from her father arriving in Timber around two years ago, distantly informing her that the previous attendant had passed away. Mrs. Weber had been her name, and she had been in the service of the Caraways since before Rinoa's birth. Rinoa had taken her passing to be yet another affirmation of her need to be away from the gloomy manor with its empty, echoing halls and hearths of cold ashes; but she could not remember any notice of a replacement.

The tidy housemaid held the door for her and Rinoa stepped inside.

"The General had a political function to attend this evening," the woman began to explain in her gauzy voice, accented in the lighter, melodic tones of Lower Galbadian. "He hasn't yet gotten home, but he'd like for you to dine with him here at 9:00, so long as you aren't too tired from your travels."

"Tell him I'll join him," Rinoa answered as she uncomfortably shifted the satchel strap over her shoulder.

"I'll show you to your room. Shall I send for Mr. Rosenthal to see to your bags?"

"That won't be necessary, I'll manage."

The maid nodded in resignation, turned, and led Rinoa through the decorated foyer and into the spacious atrium of the main floor.

Rinoa remembered how the antechamber looked when it was well-lit, with its vibrant green landscapes in their carved wooden frames of flowering vines, the warm burgundies of the walls and rugs and their black accents, and the antique furniture that was meant to be viewed and never used. The paintings were Galbadian villages and Galbadian countryside; the colors were of the traditional Galbadian palette; the designs and adornments were from the period of Galbadian Classicism. It was a room that groped for something in the past, remembering, never moving forward—and at that moment, only a single elegant, fragile lamp cast its light over the relics and treasures of Galbadian high society, hiding most of the room in darkness.

The antechamber was dominated by a great mahogany staircase, burnished to a deep, rich sheen. They followed it up to the topmost floor, went down a corridor, turned a corner, and at the end they came to Rinoa's childhood room.

The maid graciously dismissed herself. "Your father will arrive in about half an hour. I'll come for you when he arrives. If there's anything you need in the meantime, please don't hesitate to ask."

Rinoa assured her there was nothing she needed at that moment, thanked her, and went inside, relieved to be away from the formality and courtesies of her father's household. She realized as she moved away that she had never even asked for the woman's name. _Impolite,_ she told herself. _He would have had your head for that when you were a child. _But she pushed aside the notion and promised herself to do better next time. She was not a child anymore, and she did not need to be reprimanded.

Her room had not changed much in the last few years.

The lamp on her bedside table painted the room in its familiar shades of pale pink and pastel blue, like so many nights when she had sat in bed in late evening reading to its light. Her bedroom was neatly arranged, meticulously cleaned, cheery, and girlish—and somehow it gave the illusion of being lived-in. Her closet still held clothes, there were still books and little childhood trinkets in the shelves, and Rinoa could smell the freshness of her newly-washed bedding. She disentangled herself from her baggage and let it fall to the floor.

There were two windows in her room—and in the west-facing one was a pot with three bulbs of hyacinth, blooming lilac-colored and fragrant. It was a beautiful scent, reminiscent of springtime, but even after only moments in the room she couldn't help but find their sweetness stifling. Rinoa moved to open the window, letting in the cool night air that swept over the gardens of the estate outside. The breeze was better.

She turned away from the window and scanned over her things once again. Her bedroom carried a slew of memories all its own, but Rinoa couldn't guide herself away from a single thought: this place was different from her dormitory in Balamb Garden.

It was larger by far and much more luxuriant. The queen-sized bed and its plush down comforter were nothing like the narrow bedstead and hard mattress of the dorm; her bedroom was vibrant where her dorm was white and drab; her childhood belongings were here, while the dorm remained sparse and largely unornamented.

But she missed Balamb already.

There were fond memories here, to be sure: her mother sitting at the bedside, telling her stories or singing to her in her lovely, tender voice, or the times they played on the floor together with Rinoa's little toy stable and figurines of horses and their riders. Yet for every good memory there were a handful of bad ones: the tears she'd shed into her pillow following that stormy spring night shortly after she'd turned five; the arguments with her father as she'd grown older and they'd become more distant; the long hours she'd spent alone while he worked. There had been warmth and love here in the time before—but that had been a long, long time ago.

Now there was more affection to be found in her small, plain, standard-issue room in the SeeD cadet suite in the Garden.

Rinoa swallowed hard and glanced at the old alarm clock next to her bed, forcing the reverie away. She had only twenty minutes left before her father was due to arrive. There would be just enough time for a quick shower, if she hurried.

The steam and hot water soothed her tired limbs, but as each minute ticked away, her stomach twisted into an increasingly tight knot. She was drying her hair when the housemaid whose name she still did not know knocked on her door.

"General Caraway has returned and requests your company in the dining room as soon as you're ready."

"I'll be right there."

Rinoa knew she couldn't keep him waiting. She hastily finished, but when she stepped out of the room, she found the housemaid waiting to accompany her. She had no choice but to follow. As the woman led her down the stairs, Rinoa could only wonder sourly why her father felt it necessary to observe such gentilities in their home—she knew the way to her own dining table, and she didn't need a housekeeper to attend her at every step.

_I'm a guest in my own home,_ she mused.

In moments, Rinoa realized that they were not headed in the direction of the kitchens as she had expected they would. That could only mean that Caraway had also deemed that they would sup in the grand dining hall instead of the little parlor off the kitchens where they had always taken their meals. The dining hall was almost exclusively reserved for social events or formal gatherings, never for casual meals between the two of them—another stiff civility, it seemed. Perhaps her father had expected her to dress more formally, even, but it was too late for that now.

Years ago, the dining hall had doubled as a ballroom. Rinoa had been no more than four when the last one had been held there, but she could still vividly remember it—the glittering chandeliers, the women's sophisticated, flowing dresses and the men's dark suits, the music, and the tantalizing aromas of their seven-course meal. Her mother had taken her by the hand and was trying to teaching her to dance—

But the dining hall now was not as it was in the memory.

A series of candelabras lit the table with their lambent fingers of flame. Two places were set at the far end of the table opposite where she stood in the open doorway. Most of the room was empty, and quiet, but the candlelight faintly illuminated two stately, poised figures at the table's end, one standing and one sitting. Rinoa recognized the standing man as Mr. Rosenthal, Caraway's longtime, faithful butler, who had served him even before the widowed Mrs. Weber had.

And sitting at the head of the table was her father.

General Caraway was in full uniform, as august and stern as she remembered him—perhaps even more so now that his age had begun to show. Grey had advanced into the edges of his dark hair around his temples. The lines of his face had deepened, betraying a man unaccustomed to smiling throughout his years, but who was certainly no stranger to giving orders and controlling authority. He had a hard, steady gaze and a way of holding himself that forbade defiance or disrespect. This was how Rinoa remembered him, imposing and aloof…only now he looked older than she recalled.

"Good evening," her father greeted in the firm, commanding voice that was still so familiar to her. He motioned to the seat at his right hand.

Mr. Rosenthal moved from his post at her father's side to hold her chair as Rinoa approached and took her place at the table. She thanked him, and then both he and the housemaid left, closing the door behind them. An instant of rigid silence followed them.

"I trust your travels went well," Caraway announced to the hollow room. He could have been speaking to some vague acquaintance, so greatly did his voice and his question lack interest or fondness—a dignitary, politician, or some ranking official, but not his own daughter.

"They did."

"Hm. And your…companions. They're well on their way?"

"Yes. They should be reaching the Garden shortly after midnight…It's a long way from Balamb to Galbadia Garden." Rinoa realized that she was sitting a little straighter than she normally would have.

"Indeed."

There was a long pause before he spoke again.

"You haven't brought Angelo."

Rinoa looked at her father incredulously. "I didn't bring her because I thought you didn't want her here."

Throughout her adolescence, she'd never been allowed a pet. It was a rule that, as a child, she had come to deeply resent and that had inspired many a quarrel between herself and her father. Rinoa had bought Angelo on an impulse when she'd started living in Timber and had the freedom to make decisions for herself, and the one time she had tried to bring her new dog to the mansion during a visit, Caraway had nearly kicked the helpless puppy out of the house. To avoid conflict during her current visit, Rinoa had left Angelo in Selphie's care.

_We've been together only moments, and already things are shaping up for an argument,_ Rinoa considered bitterly. But she told herself to be patient, repeating the need for calmness as her mental mantra. Squall would be able to keep his composure in this situation, she reminded herself, so she should be able to as well…and Caraway was _still_ her father. She had come to make what amends she could, not to exacerbate their already rocky relationship. _Be patient—even if he isn't, don't let him bait you into another fight._

"I had come to accept her presence after the last time she was here. We had a place arranged for her this time," Caraway answered, his voice indifferent.

Rinoa was spared the need to answer when Mr. Rosenthal reappeared and presented them with their first course, a light broth with mushrooms, chives, and onions.

For a while, the only sounds were the tinkling of their soup spoons against the glass bowls.

"How have you been?" Rinoa forced herself to ask after a time. It was a pathetic question, but she did not know what to say to him, where to start. After all they had both been through since the last time they had seen one another, there was really no appropriate place _to_ start.

"Well enough," Caraway said, but she could see his frown as he finished the last spoonful of the broth.

He lifted his napkin and gingerly brushed it over his mouth, a motion of well-practiced, perfected etiquette. Rinoa reflected that her father had always had a way of moving that was flawlessly direct, deliberate, crisp, and, in a way, graceful. She saw it again as he lifted his wineglass—which Mr. Rosenthal had filled with a fine, dry vintage from a southern Galbadian vineyard—delicately, but with an effortless precision. It was the refined bearing of a man of status, strength, and discipline, a lifelong martial commander.

"…Care to elaborate?" Rinoa ventured after their dishes had been cleared and they were once again alone in the dining hall.

Caraway's stony blue gaze flicked to her, studying her, boring into her…Stony indeed, but with traces of an unfamiliar, restrained emotion that she could not identify and did not understand. His expression was solemn.

"Many things have happened in Deling since last you were here, as I am sure you know. And, from what I understand, you have been through a great deal yourself."

"…I have," Rinoa answered simply. She struggled to read between the lines of his words before answering further, wondering how much he knew and how much he expected her to tell. Fortunately, her father continued without prompting.

"Galbadia finds itself in a…difficult situation. We will manage our way out of it after a time, certainly, but the path to doing so will be long and far from simple. There will be a great deal to do in the coming years. I've been occupied lately seeing to reconstruction efforts, the establishment of our transitional government, constitutional drafts and amendments, the new limitations on our military, concluding the details of the treaty between the warring countries and Gardens…All of which I am sure your young lion would understand."

The comment caught her so off-guard that it sent her head to spinning—How did he know, from where, when, why—

But when her initial shock passed, Rinoa recognized that his voice was devoid of malice, contempt, or judgment. The comment had been decidedly neutral, such that she could not read any opinion that he held on the matter. Nevertheless, it made her wary. She was grateful for the dimness of the room as the heat of blood started to creep into her cheeks.

Their main course came before them moments later: roasted lamb chops in a velvety plum sauce, sautéed vegetables, and a buttery puree of potatoes. It had been a long time since Rinoa had eaten like this. Balamb Garden's cafeteria wasn't exactly gourmet, and the Forest Owls had fed themselves with whatever they could concoct on their own. She had to admit that her father's household cook was skilled in what he did…but the meal did little to comfort her.

The room had emptied again and they'd half-finished their plates when her father spoke again.

"Do you intend to continue living in Balamb Garden?"

"Yes," she answered promptly, determined not to show him any weakness or hesitation.

"Do you believe that's wise?"

"I do, in fact." It was all she could do to keep herself from being insulted at his insinuation. Caraway paused as he finished slicing a piece of meat off the bone.

"What do you do in Garden, exactly? Taking classes, learning from your SeeD comrades, taking up posts like theirs? Anything?"

"I read and conduct my own studies. I spend time with my friends. I find things to do. I'm not bored, if that's what you're implying."

"No, it isn't. It merely seems odd that an elite military academy would allow a non-enrolled, unemployed resident to stay indefinitely. You originally had a contract with them, did you not? That they were bound to you until Timber achieved its independence. That contract is expired now."

Rinoa snatched up her wine glass and took a swig of the Galbadian red to give her time to calm enough to reply.

"They want me there, and I want to be there. I don't see any peculiarity in that." In truth, she often still felt out-of-place in the Garden—but she had no desire to leave, in spite of that, and she was not about to tell him that either.

"If that is your wish and theirs, then I won't interfere."

Rinoa did not believe him. "Would you rather have me here, is that what you're after?" she demanded. "Because if that's the case, it's my understanding that children normally fly the nest by my age. Where else would you have me be?"

Caraway shot her a severe, forbidding look. "I said nothing of the sort. You've already long since flown, and I realized last time you were here that it was no good trying to make you stay. I will tell you this, however—I know that you will do as you wish regardless of what I say, but I do not believe Balamb Garden would be the best of places for you to remain. A university or college, maybe, but not the Garden."

Her meal forgotten, Rinoa opened her mouth to protest, but her father cut her off before she could speak.

"I am well aware of your involvement in the war, and I know that you are not naïve to the political climate that has been left in its wake. But whether you fully understand it or not, Balamb's Commander has become a vey powerful man in a very short amount of time. That has not gone unnoticed; far from it. There are many eyes watching Balamb Garden now, seeing what the Commander will do, waiting for his next actions, whatever they may be. And regardless of the fact that you have friends there, among them Leonhart himself, you must remember that first and foremost, Balamb Garden is a military institution that now wields immense political influence, more so than it ever has before. And it will continue to be watched—and very attentively."

_And you don't belong there_, was his underlying message. But instead of resenting his words, Rinoa found herself thinking to the Tribunal and their summons, the way they had included her in their subpoena of the Garden though she was no true part of it, and suddenly she was uneasy. _He mentioned all of the political business that he's involved in…but he hasn't mentioned the Tribunal._ Still, she had no doubts as to what she would do.

She breathed in deeply, slowly. "…I understand what you're saying. But…I have no intention of leaving the Garden."

"Then that's your decision to make."

_That's a change,_ Rinoa thought, eyeing him carefully, wondering what it meant.

"…However," Caraway added, "if you are to stay there, I ask that you bear in mind what I've told you."

"I will," she told him. It was only half a lie.

Dessert was an assortment of regional cheeses and fruits with half a glass of white wine. Rinoa found herself growing light-headed from both the unaccustomed alcohol and her fatigue. After the richness of their meal at so late an hour, she could only nibble at the food in front of her as she tried not to ruminate over her father's words. She was fumbling for something more to say to him when Caraway suddenly cleared his throat and rose to his feet. Both his plate and glass were empty.

"I hope you will forgive me for excusing myself early, but I expect you're weary from your travels and would like to rest as well. Would you join me for breakfast in the morning?"

"Eight o'clock, as usual?"

"Correct. Sleep well."

The General swept from the room, leaving Rinoa at the table alone with a portion of food that she'd hardly touched. Wax dribbled down from the candles as the tongues of orange fire sputtered, jumped, and flickered. She watched them idly, then left a few minutes later once she was certain she would not encounter Caraway in the mansion's barren corridors.

* * *

><p>The hallways of Galbadia Garden rang with the sounds of silence.<p>

He had liked that once. The discipline and focus, the austerity and commitment to protocol—he had liked those things, and he had liked how the students passed wordlessly from class to class, stood at attention at the presence of an officer, followed orders without question or complaint. That, he had thought, was how a military academy _should_ be. Galbadia Garden had been silent because that had been Galbadia Garden's rule.

He did not like it now.

As the young captain led him and Irvine from one place to the next, Squall no longer regarded the silence as a mark of strict regimen and successful authority. It was different now, carrying a sort of uncomfortable lifelessness that did not exist in his own Garden. Balamb's students chatted and gossiped on their way from class to the cafeteria at lunchtime; they smiled and they bickered over class material and they bragged about their latest successes in the gymnasium and training center. There was life there, and color, and the constant merry babble of the fountains that bordered the central chamber and its branching arms.

Squall had never thought he would come to cherish such things about Balamb, but after only a few minutes into their tour, he could hardly bear the stagnancy, the perpetual greyness that was broken only by lines of black and surfaces of Galbadian crimson, the lack of students that they encountered along the way.

The silence, he thought, was the sound of defeat.

But even that was shattered now and again by the fierce, splitting, unrelenting sound of drilling. It reverberated through the walls and made the room tremble and quake, muffling their guide's voice into an inaudible murmur.

_He needs to speak up or else this tour is more worthless than it already was. _

Squall folded his arms over his chest as he struggled to listen and pretend that he was paying attention. The captain seemed flustered by the periodic interruption, and faltered until the sound died away.

"My apologies Commander, Lieutenant," the Galbadian with quick, nervous eyes and gentle voice continued once silence reigned again. "As you can tell, our rebuilding project is well underway." He managed a weak, proud smile, as if he were pleased to be able to prove that fact to his two charges. "Shall we continue?"

Squall followed their guide with Irvine gliding wordlessly at his side as they were taken from place to place and given brief explanations of what they were seeing and where they were going next. They saw the dormitories and classrooms, the exercise centers and the ice hockey rink and the various construction sites and more. As they came to the second floor, Squall's patience started to wear thin, and by the time they reached the auditorium, he was thoroughly fed up and past ready to get on with the day's business.

_We went to war here, _he thought with what he was sure must be a visible scowl._ We fought through soldiers and the monsters of your training center, the man that commanded you, and in this room we nearly killed the woman that had been our Matron. I do not need to be reminded what these places are and how to get to them. _

Yet the young captain who could be no older than either Squall or Irvine continued on, oblivious, simply following the orders that he'd been given to show the Balambian guests around and acquaint them with the reconstruction and Galbadia Garden's future plans. Despite his own annoyance, Squall could not completely resent him for doing as he'd been told.

When finally the absurd courtesy came to an end, the Galbadian—Squall could not remember his name—brought them to the second-floor reception room, with which both Squall and Irvine were also already well familiar. The guide left them with the promise of returning momentarily with his superiors.

There was a dresser against one wall whose surface had been covered with a white cloth and morning refreshment miscellanea: saucers and cups, silver thermoses filled with hot water and coffee, packets for tea and a basket filled with bread and muffins. Squall and Irvine helped themselves as they waited.

"You'd think they'd remember we've both been here before," Irvine remarked as he stood fixing a cup of tea. "We didn't exactly need to be shown the facilities. I mean, I lived here for years. I'm pretty sure I know what they have sitting around."

Squall decided not to voice his agreement. Complaining would change nothing, and they both needed to be in the right frame of mind before the meeting with their Galbadian counterparts.

They did not need to wait long. Only a few minutes later, the door opened again and in came the Galbadian delegation. Leading the way were a group of top-ranking staff and instructors, representing the Garden's various departments; following them was the captain that had acted as their guide throughout the morning, and last through the door was the Garden's new Headmaster. Squall and Irvine rose to greet each one in turn, as diplomacy necessitated.

Headmaster Brandt was a sturdy, bespectacled man with a thoughtful, patient air. As a part of the administrative selection board, Squall had personally approved of Brandt's selection over the other possible options to fill the Headmaster vacancy. From what Squall had read of his profile, Brandt had joined the Galbadian military in his youth, but after his service, he had studied at one of the well-reputed universities in Galbadia. He had remained at the university for most of his career, and while he had the necessary military background to understand the inner workings of the Garden, his ties were closest with academia and not with the Galbadian military or government. He, Squall surmised, would be less likely to fall susceptible to the influences of the Galbadian state than his predecessors.

He was the last of the group to come before Squall and extend a hand.

"Commander Leonhart," Brandt greeted, "I'm very pleased to finally be able to meet you." He had a relaxed and clear way of speaking, as if there were no need to hurry through his words.

"And I you, sir."

Brandt gave him a sage, tolerant smile.

"There is no need for _sirs_ from you, Commander. If anyone is _sir_ here, it is you, not I."

Squall did not know how to answer—and he was relieved when he did not have to. "–Ah, I see you've found the refreshments we had set out," the Headmaster observed, a note of kind cordiality in his voice. "I could use a cup of coffee, myself. May I refill yours for you, Commander?"

As Irvine held his own with a group of faculty, Squall found himself wading through the pleasantries of small-talk with Brandt and a collection of other officers. How were his travels, were the accommodations to his liking, how had the tour gone, was there anything the Garden could do to make him more comfortable, so on and so on. Whenever they came to a lull in the conversation, Squall would steal a glance at Irvine—who was, he noted, doing admirably well in his new task.

Evidently, and not unexpectedly, Irvine knew a number of the instructors present and he spoke with them amiably and openly; somehow he had converted his usual suave, affected cockiness into a sort of disarming but polished aplomb. Uniformed, lacking his signature hat, and with his hair trimmed and tidied, Irvine hardly looked himself, but he was blending well into the role of sociable, practiced envoy. –And a few of the instructors noted as much, declaring that they hardly recognized him.

_He knows he'll be doing these missions alone soon enough,_ Squall considered. There had been plenty of times he'd doubted Irvine was right for the assignment. Having undergone his training as a student in Galbadia Garden hardly made Irvine qualified for a liaison job, but Squall was admittedly pleased that his appointee was so determined to prove that his selection had been a good one.

The day floated by sluggishly, one meeting after the next. Squall reviewed construction timelines, numbers of student enrollment and graduation, edits to the curriculum, and was introduced to the proposed budget. He sat through presentations and was given folders full of handouts and charts. He asked questions, got answers, and ordered edits. He heard ideas and suggested his own improvements.

Brandt proved patient and cooperative throughout the day, providing Squall with anything he wished to see or know, and voicing not a single protest, even when issues arose. If he found the mandates of the Balambian overseers vexing or offensive, the Headmaster exhibited nothing of the sort. He had a contemplative smile, careful hands, and a placid, intelligent demeanor. He dealt with problems swiftly and decisively, and Squall could already see that the officers honored his authority. He, too, seemed to have been a good choice.

As smoothly as it passed, the day took its toll. By late evening, Squall's energy had been utterly drained by his duty's demands and the long, taxing travels of the day before, and he lay in bed in the Garden's guest quarters, listless, stressed, and aching.

He wondered what Rinoa was doing.

* * *

><p>A visit from his daughter granted General Caraway no reprieve from the workload of his week. The transitional government of Galbadia would not wait for him to spend time with his child—and even if he'd had the time, he probably wouldn't have known what to do with her, anyway—so Rinoa was left alone to find ways to fill the time in her days while her father attended meetings and observed his obligations. Perhaps it was best that way. That was the way things had always been between them.<p>

Thursday morning, after they had broken their fast and Caraway had departed for the day, Rinoa boarded the bus and set off into the city on her own.

She got off at a stop in the city center, along one of the largest and most noteworthy thoroughfares through the capital. The rain had held off that morning, though the skies remained dismally overcast, and she found she did not mind walking the rest of the way. The linden trees that lined the broad street had already dropped their leaves; Rinoa passed under their bare, shivering branches as she followed the open promenade down the boulevard's median and towards the Galbadian Gate.

Deling City had a dignified, venerable beauty—there were many things she did not like about it, certainly, but walking down the central avenue inspired in her a peculiar respect for the classical monuments that she had once taken for granted. She paused to admire the stone façade of the opera house and its sprawling, grassy outer gardens, where university students congregated to socialize or study. Further on, she came to the main building of the Vinzer Deling University squatting behind its high, brooding walls. She paid a moment to consider the statue of Count Johannes II of Monterosa mounted on his proud courser, and the sculpted guardians of the National Gallery across the street from him.

Elegant, aged…but there was something about the city, its architecture, its art, its _feel_ that had always left an unpleasant aftertaste lingering in the shadows of her consciousness. There was something austere, something _grotesque_ about the capital that she could never quite place.

None of these other places, however, was her destination.

At the next block, Rinoa crossed the street and came before an immense, imposing wall. A single archway was the only path through the unbroken stone, and she passed under it and into an enclosed courtyard. A fountain without water stood in the middle, vast and cracked and empty. The opposite wall was blanketed in green, snaking ivy, whose only gaps revealed arced glass windows and a set of wooden double-doors painted crimson and bearing carved black scrollwork. If she craned her neck to look upwards, Rinoa could see a series of letters at the top of the building in the same shade of crimson: _Galbadian State Library, _in Old Galbadian script_._ Just below that squatted the tri-armed Galbadian emblem, white on a field of black and dissected by three red lines that met in the center. It was there on all Galbadian public buildings, the library included.

In her adolescence, this had been Rinoa's place.

Within those walls, she'd learned what books could do—they could take her away, away from Deling City and her father and his work, away from the overbearing tutors he assigned to teach her, away from her boredom and away from her grief. She had learned about places and times far removed from her own; she read history and literature and stories about places that never existed except within the worn covers of her books. In those pages, she forgot the rest of the world.

Rinoa had loved learning for as long as she could remember, though her education was only spotty at best. When she had been a child, Caraway had assigned her tutors to personally look after her lessons and instruction; but one after the other had given up and left. None could rein in the strong-willed, incorrigible little girl that tended towards stubbornness and sass, and none had had any desire to continue trying after their efforts quickly proved futile. Rinoa had defeated each one that came before her.

When tutors had not worked, Caraway tried sending her two different private schools in Deling City; then a boarding school for girls out in the provinces, which had lasted only a semester; then tutors again. After that, Rinoa had taken flight to Timber and had never attempted a formal education afterwards. Now, the memories embarrassed her…Someday she would need to apologize to her father for behaving so.

Yet in between the tedium and frustrations of her tutors and failed schools, she would steal off to the splendid old library and immerse herself in its stone walls, sagging bookshelves, and brittle yellow pages. The staff had come to know her from her frequent visits, and treated her kindly enough. She would spend long hours there, reading and exploring and imagining. The library had been her escape.

Rinoa went to the doors and twisted a cold iron handle. As she stepped inside and the door clattered shut behind her, she found herself in the shadowy, warm vestibule, where the smells of old books reached out to her with all the comfort of a motherly embrace. Then she was weaving between the labyrinths of shelves, and at once she was ensconced in her own sacred place.

She went from one section to the next, picking up books old and new, studying covers and summaries, flipping through pages. There were some books she would have taken with her, had she had the time to read them and bring them back before her return to Balamb. Here were new arrivals, fresh and pristine with their soft pages and loud, bold covers; over there, beneath the wooden archways and graceful paneling would be the fiction wing; and if she went in the opposite direction, she would find the most recent collections of reference materials.

After a time—Rinoa could not say how long—she found herself in one of the upper floors of the archives, where old historical texts and aged manuscripts rested, protected and preserved. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and ladders had fascinated her as a child. She would peer beyond the glass barriers and into locked display cases, where ancient books that looked as though they could disintegrate at the slightest touch sat, snuggled into plush felt. The forbiddance made the place all the more enticing, all the more beautiful.

The best-maintained books of the past two-hundred years could be viewed and handled and perused on that floor in a section off the main chamber of the archives. But only in the library—they could not be checked out.

It was here that her eyes ran across a familiar series of letters. She had not been looking for anything in particular, only browsing old political treatises, archaic historical chronicles, encyclopedias, and collections of essays. Her gaze swept over the spines of the books, their faded lettering and tattered leather binding. Then it stopped, snagged and snared.

Sorce—

Familiar letters. Where had she seen them? Rinoa scanned again, eyes flitting from one title to the next, searching for what it was that had caught her attention.

Then she found it: _An Historical Account of the Sorceresses_, in tarnished gold print.

She reached out and pulled it from the shelf. The volume was heavy, dusty, and old. Its front cover was cracked through the center of its lengthy, full title—_ An Historical Account of the Sorceresses,_ _With Their Knights, Powers, Successions, and Lineages Included and Described._

Unaware of her own movements, Rinoa moved to the nearest desk at the other end of the room, setting the book carefully—almost tenderly—down on the table's surface as she slid herself into the chair. The front cover creaked open.

For hours she stayed there reading, turning each crisp page delicately and devouring words and pictures. Legends of Hyne and Vascaroon and the Zebalgas, sorcery in antiquity, the cults to sorceresses and their knights in ancient Centra, sorceresses in feudal Galbadia, sorceresses in the Holy Dollet Empire—there was a wealth of information, more than she could have ever imagined existed on the subject. She could only wonder how it was that she had never known. Yet she knew why: she had never been interested until now.

As a little girl, Rinoa had briefly thought sorceresses seemed intriguing, and she had studied them in her children's books; but as she had grown older, they had seemed far less exciting, just some vanished and outdated mythology that no one believed in anymore. There were other things to read, more captivating and thrilling than dated legends.

Now she _needed_ to know what the book held, she needed to know _everything_.

A bell chimed, warning the visitors that fifteen minutes remained until the library's closing. Rinoa looked up and around her with a start. The skies outside the windows were dwindling into dusk as the city lights were beginning to come alive, and the clock on the far wall revealed the late hour. A plaintive rumbling reminded Rinoa that she had read through lunch. She had not taken a single break throughout the day.

Desperate as she was to take it with her, there was no choice but to leave the book behind. She found the gap on the shelf were the fat volume usually perched and slipped it, reluctantly, into its accustomed spot.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

I am very honored and excited to share that FFN user Greengirlblue has sketched the scene of Timber's Independence from Chapter I and has posted it to her DeviantArt page! The link to both her FFN profile and the image were on my profile, but as it seems that FFN has currently disabled external links, you won't be able to access it from there until they lift the ban. You can find the picture by searching "Timber Independence" on DeviantArt (its pretty easy to spot). Be sure to take a close look at some of the details she's included.

Thanks, Greengirlblue! And my thanks and gratitude, as always, to those that read and review.


	6. Chapter VI

**Chapter VI**

"Do you happen to have this?"

Rinoa handed the shopkeeper the slip of paper and watched as the woman's eyes scanned over the lengthy title. Her expression turned regretful as she looked back up to Rinoa and returned the note.

"No ma'am. My apologies."

"Do you have anything like it?

"I'm not sure that we still do…But here, let's have a look."

Rinoa followed her into the store's interior, past stacks of stray books and through shelves standing so tightly together that she had to turn sideways to sidle by them. The store was a hole-in-the-wall if ever there was one, with brick walls that pressed close and stuffy scents of aged wood and stale leather. The hardwood floor groaned underfoot. One narrow room led into the next and up a little ramp into the next and down a short staircase into the next, until Rinoa was thoroughly disoriented.

_How do they ever find anything?_ she found herself wondering, and not for the first time. The bookstore was much as the others had been—mazes and muddles that only the shop owner seemed capable of navigating. …Well, not _all_ had been that way, but many certainly had.

How many had she been to over the last few days? Rinoa couldn't remember; she'd quit counting.

She had not returned to the library since her first visit, choosing instead to spend her days toiling in search of the great tome for her own, one bookstore after another. Yet in spite of all of her efforts, she had not been able to obtain a single copy. She had been to nearly every vendor of old books in the city, and not one could provide her with the volume she sought. Few had ever heard of it, and only three had even owned a copy—two had it under lock and key and had been unwilling to part with it, and the third had set the price so unreasonably high that Rinoa had to turn it down. This store had been her final remaining hope.

There had been only a single edition of the book, she had learned, and its engravings were original and illustrated by hand, giving _An Historical Account of the Sorceresses_ a hefty value among collectors and antiquarians. Knowing that now, Rinoa was somewhat surprised that the library still had it out in the open and not in a glass-shielded display and out of the reach of visitors.

Her hunt, however, had not been entirely fruitless—far from it, in fact. The storekeepers and book collectors were hardly experts on the topic of sorceresses, but they _were_ experts on books; so for every "I'm sorry" she had gotten, she had also received a slew of recommendations for more recent titles that could be easily procured. Sitting in the floor of her bedroom even now, perched atop her packed duffle bag, was a healthy collection of chronicles, biographies, and analyses of sorceresses throughout history.

Some dated a century ago at the least, just before Centra's decimation and demise; others, the most recent, had been written during or immediately after the reign of Sorceress Adel. Some were Galbadian, others Dolletan, and others Estharian. With a range of authorships and a wealth of information at hand, Rinoa would have plenty of sources for her research even without the book that had sparked the idea.

The shopkeeper paused before a particularly intimidating bookshelf that looked as if it could topple over if even just one or two more books were added to it. Rinoa thought she could feel its relief as one volume was withdrawn from the mass of others.

"I know the book you're looking for," the store's owner explained without even a glance away from the ragged spines and flaking titles before her. "This one came a bit after it. The author had less renown, but the information is still sound and thorough, if that's what you're looking for." She handed the book to Rinoa, who needed only to riffle through a few pages to make up her mind about it.

"I'll take it."

"…Unfortunately, that seems to be the last we have, so that's all I can offer you." The slight woman turned back to Rinoa, gazing at her over the rims of her rectangular spectacles. "There's been a great deal of interest on the subject lately, and our stocks are running rather low."

Together, they started on the winding route back to the front of the store.

"May I ask why it is you're looking for that particular book?" the shopkeeper inquired as they creaked up the set of low, slumped steps.

Rinoa had her answer at the ready. "It's part of my research for my thesis. I'm studying the changes in written portrayals of sorceresses throughout different moments in history, so I'm trying to collect as much original source material as possible." She followed her words with a pleasant smile.

The shopkeeper bought it, and returned her grin with a touch of pride. "Ah, I see. University student, are you? I was a student at the Vinzer Deling University, myself—well, before it was called _Vinzer Deling_, but we won't go into that. It'll only show my age." She laughed, and Rinoa answered with a polite, obliging chuckle. And that was that. Curiosity appeased.

The first time Rinoa had been confronted with the question, she had been so taken aback that it was all she could do to stammer out a hastily fabricated answer and hold down a blush. She'd learned her lesson after that: her search for so old and rare a book inspired curiosity, curiosity inspired questions, and she was not about to offer them the truth. So for every store afterwards, she had equipped herself with the passable and believable guise of a university student, her armor to deflect the inquisitive appeals of the book sellers. It had worked.

"Good luck with your thesis," the shopkeeper offered genially after Rinoa had paid and gathered up her purchase. Rinoa said her thanks and left.

Outside, the bellows of automobile engines and the clap of boot heels on the sidewalks met her ears as the city opened up before her. There had been a cold spell that morning, the first harbinger of the winter to come, and a snappy wind tugged at her hair and nibbled at her ears. With her book's plastic bag looped around her wrist, Rinoa stuffed her hands into the pockets of her coat and started walking.

_Sage Vascaroon came to consult with Zebalga. He was wise, and knew the answer to the problem with 'half of Hyne's body.'_

The story came to her mind unbidden, demanding her attention, holding her, shaking her, and refusing to let her go. It had been one of the earliest tales of her reading: the legend of Great Hyne, how humanity had come to acquire his power, and what human beings had done with that power afterwards. A bedtime story for children—that was how Rinoa had always known it, but she had encountered it in almost every book about sorceresses she had bought, each time slightly different, but always in essence the same.

_Hyne had given them a corrupted part of his body. What the humans had thought was 'half of Hyne's body' was really just the cast off skin of Hyne._

It followed her to the bus stop, onto the bus, and through the clammy streets of Deling City; past homogenous high-rise apartment complexes and their squalid yards; through the broad, unbending avenue.

_When they heard this explanation, the Zebalga clan was furious. They vowed to destroy Hyne._

It chased her onto a new bus, past the covered arcades and the Galbadia Hotel.

_However, the other half of Hyne's body was nowhere to be found. The humans began referring to the missing Hyne as 'Hyne the Magician,' and sought him for generations._

Then Rinoa was getting off the bus, passing the guardhouse, traipsing up the walkway to her father's manor, opening the door.

_It's to be expected that the magic of Hyne could not be found. Because of people's feelings at that time, it concealed itself in bodies, in the form of women, people who it was thought should be protected— _

"Miss Rinoa." The voice, however mild, ruptured the daydream as if it were no more than bubble floating freely, vulnerably through the air. "Your father awaits you in the back parlor as soon as you're ready." The housekeeper was standing behind her at the foot of the mahogany staircase.

"Thanks Mrs. Hoffmann—I'll be right there."

That seemed to please the maid, who moved off with a thoughtful smile. After her stumble in social etiquette from the first evening, Rinoa had made a conscious effort to get to know her father's newest household employee. She had learned the woman's name and more: Mrs. Hoffmann was from Ehringshausen, a village snuggled in the mountains of southern Galbadia that had been her home for all of her youth and most of her life. She had come to Deling City after her husband had died serving in the First Sorceress War, and she had a twenty-seven-year-old son who had spent many years working as a waiter, but who had just recently managed to open up his own guesthouse in their hometown.

The fact that Rinoa had both made such an effort to get to know her and had listened so attentively to her story seemed to deeply honor the gentle Mrs. Hoffmann. The maid had found little ways to express her appreciation since then—more flowers in the windowsill or pastries fresh from the oven when Rinoa returned home from scouring through bookstores—and she appeared to smile more when Rinoa was around.

General Caraway had always been good to the people that served him faithfully, but Rinoa had no doubt that he was also a difficult man to work for—strict, chilly, and remote, with fierce expectations and lofty standards. He dealt harshly with disobedience and disappointment. The Caraway household was not a cozy or heartfelt one, so Rinoa could thoroughly understand why her father's newest domestic had so warmed to such a simple act of kindness. She was glad she could do at least that much to make up for her initial negligence.

In her bedroom, Rinoa stuffed the book into the burly canvas bag that already held all the others—she would be leaving the mansion with an additional piece of luggage, another peculiarity that was sure to invite questions. She already had her excuses prepared.

As she was gathering up her baggage to carry downstairs, a series of throaty, baritone peals from the grandfather clock in the hallway announced noon. She was late.

And, indeed, the first thing her father did when she came into the parlor was to glance at the room's wall-mounted clock. Caraway's lips parted, but Rinoa spoke first.

"I know I'm late, I'm sorry—I was across town and just got back."

General Caraway studied her for a long, wordless moment.

"I was simply going to say that we had best get to eating if you are to be at the train station by 1:00."

_I know_, Rinoa thought grudgingly as she took her seat. _I don't need that pointed out to me._ –But even that, she had to admit, was better than him harping on her tardiness to their appointed mealtime.

Lunch was already set out—a thick soup and slices of fresh, dense white rye, beloved in Galbadia. Caraway was not a man to be hurried through his meals, and any notion of haste came only in the distant sensation of not being able to eat quite as slowly as they otherwise would have.

"You certainly have kept yourself busy over the last few days," Caraway said without ever looking her way. "What have you been doing?"

"Shopping."

"For?"

"Books."

That assuaged him as easily as the mask of a university student had assuaged the bookseller. Buying books was hardly out of the ordinary for her, and Caraway's interest never reached so far as to wonder what _kind_ of books she wanted.

And at any rate, her father couldn't fault her for her frequent forays into the city to keep herself occupied. Caraway had had barely a moment to spare, and mealtimes had truly been the only opportunities for father and daughter to see one another. Yesterday he had found the time for a stroll through the estate's gardens with her, and during the evening before, Rinoa had joined him for a performance of the Deling Philharmonic Orchestra. But other than that, Rinoa had been mostly left on her own—as she had always been.

"And you?" she countered with all her marshaled courteousness. "What's kept you so tied up?"

"The treaty."

The General shifted ever so slightly in his seat, staring at the far wall with its homey tones of brown and tan, collecting his thoughts. "The final signing is in just over a week. The Gardens finished their parts quite some time ago and are already enforcing it. Now it's just up to the countries involved to make it final and official." Rinoa knew from his bemused, removed air that the subject was not one that he enjoyed. She found that she did not either. In just over a week, she knew, was concomitantly the outset of the military tribunal, intentionally so.

"I see." And then there was nothing else Rinoa could say.

They stood alone in the foyer as they waited for Mr. Rosenthal to fetch the car, but few words passed between them.

Rinoa was buried beneath the weight of her luggage, bound in a tangle of straps that snaked and cinched around her like so many grabbing vines. Just in the short walk from the main corridor to the entry at the driveway, she had needed to repeatedly readjust their positions to keep them from falling. Now, as one band slipped from her shoulder, she started to reach for it—but her father caught it first.

General Caraway repositioned it, straightening and securing the errant piece of baggage on her, and Rinoa's heart lurched.

She was a little girl again, antsy and squirming in her eagerness to leave for kindergarten. It had been snowing, she remembered. Her mother stood to the side, hand lain delicately over her mouth to contain her laughter. Her father had zipped up her coat, pulled a hat over her ears, and had lifted the straps of her bulky child's backpack over her shoulders—"_Be still, Rinoa; the more you fidget, the longer it'll take,"_ he had said, and not unkindly—gestures of such tacit, protective paternal affection…Taken for granted in times of happiness and peace, but long ago forgotten between them.

Rinoa looked up and met her father's gaze.

It was smooth and still, the surface of a lake on a cloudy, breezeless day. He did not pull away or recede back into his untouchable, guarded detachment. Instead, he spoke.

"Rinoa." The way he said her name, so measured and so precise, made her dread at first whatever he would say next. Yet the feeling faded in an instant.

"I want you to remember what I told you. I…want you to be careful."

The hesitation was enough to tell her.

_He knows._

Of course he knew—how couldn't he? True, she didn't expect him _not_ to know…but neither did she expect to have to recognize that knowledge between them.

Word had leaked from Esthar months ago. In fact, Rinoa was quite certain that Galbadian intelligence had caught a whiff of it as early as the Battle of the Gardens, when Edea had collapsed and fled, freed of possession and control. And Caraway was a ranking Galbadian official, of course he'd found out—more than likely, he'd been one of the first to know.

Meantime, the news had slithered out of Esthar's opened walls and Galbadia's shamed military, however slowly, however gradually. Soon the entire world would know if it did not already.

Of course Caraway knew.

_He knows what I am, what I have become. And he is afraid. For me. For us. _

Rinoa felt her throat tighten and throb.

"I'll try." Her voice sounded tremulous to her own ears, but she set her lips and nodded slowly. Caraway mirrored her in unspoken acceptance.

In that moment, Rinoa knew that she did not hate her father, that she could _never_ hate him.

Dislike him, certainly—she was not likely to forget how he had abandoned her in her childhood, withdrawing into his own grief when Rinoa had needed him most…How he had buried himself in his work and his rank while his daughter mourned alone; how his severity had divided them, torn them from one another and pitted them against each another. But definitely not hate, never hate.

They would still disagree, argue, and would rarely see eye-to-eye on anything. And Caraway would always possess his most irritating vices: he was cold, demanding, aloof, unapproachable, and serious to a fault, and he would always stay that way.

But how could she grudge him those faults? Weren't the things that so annoyed her in her father the same traits that so attracted her to Squall? The two men were vastly different, for a certainty—and even the qualities that they shared appeared in different shades and forms between them. Yet the commonalities were there: sternness, solemnity, a commitment to duty and honor. They were soldiers, officers, men of discipline and command and respect.

With a stab of guilt came a moment of epiphany—an understanding, sympathy. Sympathy for her father, for herself: for what there was and for what could have been and for what could yet be. She felt sorry for herself, for her father and her mother both, for Squall, and for others, though she knew not who or why.

But she did not have time to dwell on it. A black car slid into view of the windows, and a horn beckoned them outside.

Before Rinoa stepped out at the train station, her father turned to her one last time.

"Give young Leonhart my regards."

"Sure thing," she replied with a touch of gentle sarcasm, deciding not to struggle with reading into the comment.

Then a pause, a moment of uncertainty, a groping for how to say farewell.

"Safe travels.—And take care of yourself," Caraway told her.

"I will," Rinoa answered. "And you to do the same."

* * *

><p>"You sure you don't want to play, Squall?" The cards snapped in his hands as Irvine shuffled the deck repeatedly, methodically. "It's not a hard game to pick up. Simple rules. Simple concept. No stress."<p>

"I'm sure."

A shrug in resignation. "Suit yourself.—Okay, Rinoa, here's how it works."

Squall let the explanation drown away in his consciousness and averted his focus to a different task. There was a stunted, narrow table pulled down between them—Irvine, across from them, was dealing cards to himself and Rinoa while Squall, further down and at the window, had out portfolio and pen. Galbadia Garden's final budget demanded reviewing, again. He would need it committed to memory before his return to Balamb, ready to show and explain to his officers during tomorrow's meeting.

Outside in the world beyond the glass, the sun hovered above the rims of the featureless houses that whisked by in the train's headlong rush towards the coast. The land was flat and open, the train's movement smooth, swift, and unnoticeable. Power poles and minor stations flitted away in insignificant blurs. In the distance, farmsteads and pastures rolled off and out of sight in their own slow, dragging time. To Squall, it was not fast enough. He was sick of trains. He had spent hours on them already, and there were still hours yet to go.

He looked away from the window and down at the document in front of him; and its mean, compact font glowered right back. Squall frowned.

–Then again, he thought, the trains _were_ something of a respite from the Gardens. A world between worlds, a suspension of time and duty. Maybe he should be resting instead of working, while he still had the chance.

Beside him came a bark of victory. "Hah! I won. You're right, that wasn't so hard."

Irvine was scanning the cards on the table. He squinted down at his own hand. "So you did. Beginner's luck." His expression changed to a silky smile. "I guess I should confess. I let you win—gotta give you a chance to get a feel for the game and build up some confidence before we play for real."

"Sure you did. Just deal again."

The next game was Irvine's win—and the next, Rinoa's again. Squall gradually let his gaze drift away from his work and to the game. Rinoa was chewing on her bottom lip, her gaze shifting between the spread on the table and the five cards in her hand. He watched as she made a choice and played the card; then Irvine's counter, then Rinoa's again. Within a few turns, Squall thought he understood the gist of the game as he observed, careful not to let Irvine or Rinoa see his interest. The game was simple enough in premise, but was more complex than Irvine let on—a mix of luck and strategy, a game that could be won with the right blend of planning, organization, and a dash of sheer fortune.

"Deal me a hand this time," he said as Rinoa was shuffling the deck for another round.

"You want to give it a try?" There was a touch of surprise in her voice.

"Should I explain—" Irvine started to ask, but Squall needed no instructions.

"I'll catch on."

He won the game quickly, decidedly. And another after that. And then another.

At the conclusion of the fifth game, Irvine tossed his remaining cards down in exasperation. "I should have known better than to invite you to play. Leave it to Squall to figure the damn thing out without even knowing how to play the game."

"It isn't that difficult. You said as much yourself."

Rinoa, however, was still studying the table. She gathered up the cards and started to mix them.

"Let's play again," she said. "I'm not quite done yet. –Are you in, Irvine?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine."

Just as Squall was ready to tighten the noose that would end the game, Rinoa held up her empty hands.

"Done," she said simply, blithely. Her lips curled into a smirk. "Sorry, Squall, but I can't let you keep winning. You're too predictable. See? You've used the same strategy each time."

"You both let it happen," he countered, but it was a challenge he couldn't ignore. Yet the tide had shifted in her favor. Rinoa won a streak, but they played game after game until Squall had beaten her again.

Afterwards, war erupted between the two competitors. "I'm out," Irvine announced over their rising voices. "And this is the last time I ever play cards with the two of you. You're both obnoxious."

Moments later, the game was forgotten—and the situation was suddenly, actually, sort of humorous. Squall fell silent, Rinoa laughed and tried to apologize, and then Irvine grinned in good-natured mirth and waved her excuses away.

"You two are ruthless," he concluded as he packed the cards away. "But at least it burned some time." Indeed, the sun had since crawled further towards the western horizon, slinking behind a wispy line of clouds that smothered the earth in pale shadow. Irvine stood and stretched. "Think I'm going to head over to the dining car and grab something to eat. Either of you want anything?—No? You sure? All right, then. I'll be back in a bit." He eased out of the sliding door and into the narrow corridor, disappearing from sight.

Rinoa propped her socked feet onto the seat that Irvine had vacated, lounging in the opened space. Squall suppressed the impulse to do the same. The train's excuse for a SeeD cabin was a succession of three cramped rooms smashed to one side of a car—a standard sitting compartment, a sleeper with three bunks, and a snug water closet. Altogether, they would have made a spacious partition, but individually they were no more comfortable or luxurious than any standard arrangements would have been.

When Squall glanced back down at the table's surface he found the documents unmoved and unchanged, just as menacing and unpleasant as before. Unable to suffer them, he gathered them up and started to stash them away.

"Taking a break?" Rinoa asked from beside him.

"Mhmm."

"Good." She sat up and folded the table back into place as if it had been in her way all along, a nuisance that she was ready to be rid of. Then there were just the two of them, side by side, with only the setting sun and the train's subtle rhythm as their companions. Rinoa stifled a yawn with the back of her hand as she settled into the stiff cushions of the bench.

"So you survived the week," Squall said, half-remark and half-question.

"I did—it wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be."

"And Caraway let you come back to Garden without a fight?"

"I wouldn't exactly put it that way, but in the end, I'm back here and not still there."

Though the countryside raced past—town after town, barns and paddocks and leaning silos that flowed together like wayward strokes of paint on canvas—only smooth silence accompanied the train's course. Shadows lengthened and the cabin dimmed. Long before the door to the compartment opened again, Rinoa had fallen asleep against him. She had nodded off gradually, and when sleep finally claimed her, she had leaned against him with her head rested on his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing to do. Squall hardly minded, but he would have relaxed more had there not been the prospect of Irvine's return and the inevitable jeering that would accompany it.

Evening had settled over them and Squall was near to dozing when the latch rattled and Irvine stepped back inside.

"You certainly took your time," Squall said as Irvine slid back into his seat, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Rinoa.

"Yeah," Irvine answered. Squall thought he detected a note of evasion, reluctance.

"What kept you?"

"Ah, you know…Met a couple of university students on their way back to Balamb. Treated them to a couple of drinks, had some dinner, heard about their weekend in Galbadia. Just socializing a bit."

Squall didn't need to ask to know that the students were female. And Irvine apparently didn't need to ask to know that Squall didn't approve, as he quickly turned the subject away from himself. He nodded towards Rinoa instead.

"She looks comfortable."

"She's been asleep for a while," was Squall's only answer.

"Must have been a stressful weekend. –Hey, did she ever tell you what all she's carrying back in that bag?"

"Books. That was all she said." Beside him, Rinoa shifted, edging ever so slightly closer to him. Her features were drawn. Though they spoke in hushed voices, Squall had the sense that something troubled her sleep. "It's not surprising. She likes to read and it's not exactly like she has a whole lot to do at the Garden."

"Yeah, I guess not."

After that, Irvine quieted, but not for long.

"Squall, Selphie doesn't need to know about—"

But Squall cut him off before he could continue. "There wouldn't be anything for you to dread her knowing if you'd consider that beforehand. I'm not going to tell her this time. What you do is your own business, but I will tell you this: when you're doing these diplomatic missions in the future, remember what it is you're doing and who it is you're representing. I won't tolerate reports of indecent behavior by my officers."

Irvine seemed about to reply, then apparently thought better of it. He didn't speak.

"You worked well this week, Irvine," Squall concluded. "Keep it that way."

Irvine nodded, resigned.

They had been riding in darkness and silence for some time, when Rinoa bolted awake. She jerked upright, sucking in a deep breath and looking about her as if she didn't know where she was.

"You all right?" Irvine asked from across from her.

Grogginess clouded her countenance, and she lifted a hand to rub her eyes. "Yeah, I was just…" She didn't seem to know what she wanted to say. Instead, she tried to resume her former position—but as soon as she did so, Rinoa seemed to realize what she was doing and flinched away. Only then did she seem to really wake.

"Sorry, Squall," she said, abashed.

"Nothing to apologize for."

Irvine was holding back his laughter—and doing a poor job of it. "Bad dream?"

Rinoa shook her head. "No…Just woke up suddenly, is all. I don't know why." She looked around again, and then out the window. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Almost two hours," Squall supplied.

"Oh." Rinoa sat back, her expression puzzled and somehow aggrieved. After that, she couldn't seem to relax again; and finally, she gave up and stood. "I think I'm going to get up and walk around for a bit…I'm sort of thirsty, anyway. Want to come, Squall?"

"Sure." He rose and followed. Irvine stayed behind, saying he'd watch over the cabin and their luggage.

Rinoa was markedly preoccupied the rest of the evening. They spoke little as they had dinner, and she stayed reserved—though close—for the rest of the ride and the drive to the Garden. Squall resolved that it must have been a taxing week, as it had been for all of them, and he had little enough to say himself, anyway.

They didn't reach the Garden until the latest hours of the night, the earliest hours of the morning, after the curfew had emptied the halls and when only the chatter of the fountains was there to greet them.

* * *

><p>He thought he heard the ocean.<p>

Carried on the breeze from far away—the crash and the retreat, slow, eternal. He thought he could smell sea foam and taste salt and sand. He imagined the tide crawling up the beach towards him, a swell of water spreading out across the dune, reaching to him. The water would be dark and, if it touched him, cold.

When he opened his eyes, the sky above him was black and heavy. He felt a biting draft pass across his nose and cheeks, and wondered where he was.

The rush came again, a sweep of sound, and powerful. The draperies at the window stirred.

_Not the ocean. Too far away._

Squall rolled over and found the strident numbers of the digital clock. 5:35—Too early to get up, but too late to go back to sleep. He breathed in and his lungs swallowed raw, bitter air.

_Must have left the window open._

He peeled back his sheets, stood, and crossed the barren room. There was a door that led out to the balcony, designed in distinctly Dolletan framework; and next to that, the window. Another breeze slipped in through the slim gap that he'd opened in evening before he'd retired for bed. Squall pushed it shut and locked it.

Out the window and beyond the balustrade, he could see naked trees swaying and shuddering with another blast of wind. The growing gust heaved through branches and shook the forests, a sea of whooshing tumult, though not of waves and water as he'd imagined. The night was clear, but on the southern horizon was a cluster of gathering clouds. Come the day, there would be rain.

Squall turned away and regarded his empty bed. Somehow he knew that he would not sleep more.

He started his morning instead: showered, dressed, and then sat in his study to await the opening of the dining hall. There was work enough to occupy him for the remaining hour. Squall pulled out his planner and began organizing the agenda for the day. Now that he and his officers had sorted out and approved of their plans for Galbadia's future, it was back to daily Garden business as usual. There would be meetings and deskwork, papers to sign and consultations to give and more meetings after that.

_I should be asleep. I have all day to work on this. I need to rest._

But even as he thought it, he chased the notion away in disgust. Such laments would do him no good—he needed to concentrate. Yet try as he might, he could not keep his mind on task. The drab gray light of the rainy morning gave the world a spectral, drowsy quality that dulled his thoughts and lured them to places they would not venture during the day.

_Rinoa is probably asleep,_ he found himself thinking next.

The idea startled him, though it was not unwelcome; and before he could rein it in, it scampered away to take on a life of its own. He envisioned her nestled in her bed with the sheets pulled up over her slender shoulders, her dark hair splayed across a white pillow, her features serene in her slumber. Perhaps her lips would be ever so slightly parted to breathe as she slept, her chest lifting and falling in a steady, level rhythm.

Before he could consider how he wished to join her—how he would sleep alongside her and would wake to the sight of her next to him—he slammed his planner shut, harder than he meant to, and stood. The more such thoughts intruded upon him of late, the less he knew what to do with them. He pressed them down and buried them in his Garden duties, but they always came back, and recently with a growing frequency.

Squall knew he had not been with Rinoa enough lately, and often he wondered if she wasn't miserable in the Garden, spending day after day with nothing to do but wait for sparse moments to spend with her friends. The thought made him uneasy. What if she was unhappy? What if there came a point at which she would want to leave? What would he do then? He never wanted her to become a part of the Garden establishment, but it seemed selfish and despicable to wish to confine her there.

When finally he wrestled his feelings back into dormancy, Squall realized that he had reached the dining hall. It was not yet opened, but he resolved to wait there and away from his wandering consciousness in the solitary silence of his room, regardless.

The afternoon saw him in the conference room with Quistis, Xu, Nida, Zell, Selphie, and Irvine.

The Council, they called it: the highest ranking officers of the Garden, and Squall's closest advisory board. While most of the Garden revered the group, Squall was fully aware of the mutterings of certain instructors and staff that continued to resent the change in command. _The children at their play,_ Zell had overheard one of the senior instructors declare once as he'd been on his way to a Council meeting. The man believed himself to be speaking out of earshot, but Zell had heard—even so, Squall could not act on hearsay alone, and the fellow was fortunate that he had not spoken such in the Commander's presence. Squall would have quelled it instantly.

"Selphie, we've received final approval from Trabia Garden regarding the survey delegation," Quistis was explaining. "They have confirmed the dates for the end of the month. You'll be accompanied by two SeeDs and a member of the accounting staff to assist you. You're to assess the remaining damage, review their construction plans, funding sources, and financial needs. Return to us with an estimate of their outstanding requirements and specific projects to which we can contribute."

Squall thought that Selphie might rocket from her seat and dance across the room in her joy. He could see how she sat on the edge of her chair, poised as if every muscle in her body were ready for the action. But whatever urges she was suppressing, she kept them in check.

"Thank you Quis—I mean, Lieutenant Commander, ma'am. I'll be looking forward to the…umm, initiation and performance of my assignment."

Quistis couldn't hold back a smile. "Headmaster Lindstrom has also indicated that she is looking forward to seeing you again."

At that, Selphie glowed. That was, perhaps, the one pleasant subject on their itinerary.

They followed one topic after another, marching through the individual functions of the Garden and the duties of its leaders. The Council did not occupy even a half of the long oval table in the conference room. They sat grouped towards the end of it, with Squall at his accustomed post at the end nearest the windows. Behind him, rain was lashing against the glass in a sudden downpour; he ignored it.

Irvine was briefing them on a follow-up communication with Galbadia Garden, but as Squall looked around the table, his focus meandered elsewhere. No matter how hard they worked, no matter how diligently or seriously and no matter how dire their responsibilities, Squall could not help but lend some credence to the image of children on a playground. A little private club in a tree-house—kids playing at adult responsibilities with little conception of the implications of what they did.

The oldest and most experienced of them was Xu, a SeeD longer than any of the rest of them and aged somewhere in her early-to-mid-twenties. Following her was Quistis, the prodigy that had reached instructorship in her teens, only to have it revoked due to youth and naivety and inexperience. After her came Nida, and Squall and the others were even younger.

Most of the Garden's instructors were vestiges of the previous administrations—some were even former Norg devotees that had survived the schism—and Squall knew that many of them fostered some sort of resentment for the way the Garden was now commanded. Even the mildest ones had balked at Cid's departure and questioned the competency of the new leadership, though they would never voice such. And as he looked in the face of his officers, Squall could sometimes see the legitimacy of their complaints—the Garden rested in the hands of a group of green young SeeDs. They had been war-seasoned, true; but not one of them was a trained General or Commander, and only Xu and Quistis had had any command experience prior to the war.

And yet…They all had striven to perform their new duties, to assume their roles and to live up to their ranks. Thus far, they had all done so commendably. But even a slew of successes would not change the doubts that many, including Squall, still harbored.

When Irvine had finished, Xu cleared her throat and started to speak.

"Commander, we've had another contract request from Esthar. President Loire has informed us that the monster outbreak following the Lunar Cry has been mostly resolved within the capital and most other major cities throughout the country. The Estharian military has disposed of most of the incursions into the inhabited areas of the continent and they have erected increased defenses to protect populated zones. Meantime, they have begun reconstruction efforts to repair the damage done to the city proper and to the surrounding areas."

Messages from Laguna never pleased Squall—but at least the news he sent this time was better than the last. While the rest of the world was piecing itself together in the wake of the military conflict, Esthar had been embroiled in a new battle to preserve itself against the Lunar Cry. After the Galbadians had aligned the Crystal Pillar and initiated the ancient cycle of gravity and lunar tide that had demolished entire civilizations in the past, Laguna had been forced to commit every resource into defending Esthar against the monstrous onslaught. Much of the country now lay in ruins, but Esthar's technological advancement and Laguna's rapid response had spared the nation from utter obliteration.

He and the others listened intently as Xu continued.

"However, he warns that the surge of lunar monsters has done significant harm to Estharian natural resources, particularly its agricultural sector, which will have devastating consequences for the Estharian economy. Further, he and his advisors predict that the military will be unable to completely contain the invasion. He fears that the monsters will likely first move into Trabian territory. Some may also succeed in crossing the Horizon Bridge into Fisherman's Horizon, and from there into the Galbadian continent. The possibilities also exist that they may cross the Strait of Minde into Centra and move through the Albatross Archipelago into Balamb.

"The president intends to alert the international community to the threat, but he has also appealed to us for another group of SeeDs. There is a laboratory on the outskirts of Esthar City that he wishes to have cleared and salvaged, and he believes it is a mission best suited to a small taskforce rather than the soldiers of the Estharian military. I have the details in a draft contract for your review."

She passed the folder down to him, and the other officers sat in mute anticipation as Squall read over the document. It did not take him long to finish. The present contract resembled the other three that had already been enacted and fulfilled between Balamb Garden and Esthar following the Lunar Cry, and the mission appeared straightforward enough. There was one clause that he did not like—a demand for confidentiality on the part of the SeeD cadets involved—but he chose not to voice his opinion on the matter. Squall took up his pen and added his signature to the end.

"Nida," he said, looking down the table to the SeeD Captain sitting furthest from him at the table, "you'll lead the squad. Pick four SeeDs to join you. Xu, make the necessary edits to the contract once the Captain has made his choice and Esthar has been told of our approval. Forward a copy to Nida once I've signed the final version."

"Yes sir," both recited after Squall had given his orders.

"Unless there is any other remaining business, then that concludes this meeting."

No one spoke.

"In that case, you're dismissed."

When he had finished wrapping up the day's obligations, Squall took his dinner early, alone, and returned to his quarters to change out of his uniform. Waning afternoon light still peered through the windows by the time he'd finished, coarse and rosy as the rainclouds drifted westward and cleared the evening skies. He stood across from the tall gunblade case that stood in the far corner of his bedroom, following the fluid lines of the silver lion's head, wondering. He'd meant to go to the training center that evening; he'd ensured that he had finished his duties in time to do so, but now…

Now he wasn't going to. He abandoned his quarters, his gunblade, and the prospect of his daily training exercise. He ambled through the hallways of the third floor, thinking his path aimless, but knowing better—and indeed, after a while he boarded the elevator and then was in the bright, open atrium of the Garden's first floor.

Squall didn't understand what it was that he needed, but he needed it all the same. Tonight, he did not turn down the corridor that would lead him to the training grounds, but he went further, to the black-striped halls that branched out to the student dormitories. He monitored his gait, maintaining a casual, unhurried pace while cursing himself for what he was doing—if any of the students saw him, if any of the SeeDs or any of his officers ran into him, if she wasn't there—

He had almost reached the wing reserved for SeeD cadets when he heard a sudden, sharp sound, unaccustomed and momentarily startling—a dog's bark.

"Angelo, shh." He heard Rinoa's command before he saw them, just as he was rounding the corner. Rinoa was crouching, one hand holding the end of the leash and the other grasping the dog's collar. "You'll get us both in trouble if you disturb anyone," she scolded in a harsh, low voice. The dog's ears were pulled back, her stance wary—but she changed the moment she saw him. Her jaw dropped in a happy pant and her tail started to wag.

"S-sorry—" Rinoa started to say when she heard his approach. Yet when she looked up and discovered that he was not a nameless SeeD on the way to his dorm, her expression changed to relief…with maybe a trace of confusion and lingering guilt. "Oh—Squall. I didn't expect you—" She rose to her feet. "Umm, I'm sorry about Angelo. I try to take her out the side entry when no one's around, but sometimes if she hears someone…I can't always stop her."

"It's not a big deal. Don't worry about it."

Rinoa seemed uncertain. "We were just headed outside right now. You're welcome to join us if you want, but I can definitely understand if you don't."

He shrugged. "Sure. I could use the fresh air."

That seemed to surprise her, but Rinoa offered no protest.

The air outside was moist and dense from the rain, the ground spongy with layers of soggy, rotting leaves. Angelo pulled eagerly at the leash, her breath coming out in short rasps as she led them to the stone path that ran around the Garden's perimeter. Squall could tell that they must usually follow a regular path, as the dog seemed to know precisely where to go. They took a muddy side-path that led into a meadow away from the Garden; there, Rinoa unhooked the leash and let Angelo dart off into the grass.

"Where were you headed?" Rinoa devoted him a sidelong glance, an upturned corner of her mouth, and an unmistakably mischievous tone. They stood together at the side of the field, on the driest part of the path.

"Updating Quistis on an assignment that I need her to finish by tomorrow morning. It isn't urgent, necessarily, but I need to tell her in-person anyway."

"—Oh." He could hear the note of disappointment in her voice, and knew that he had convinced her. Rinoa hesitated. "I'm not sure Quistis is in her room right now, actually. She might still be at dinner."

Squall didn't smile. "I was joking."

Rinoa threw him a look of such shock and malice that for a moment, he was tempted to laugh. –And after a moment, she was the one laughing.

"I see. So you were coming to pay me a visit, huh? It's okay, you don't have to admit it if it embarrasses you."

"It doesn't. I just figure that since you often show up at my apartment in the evening to visit, I…ought to return the favor."

She didn't bother to conceal her delight, grinning as if she had accomplished some great triumph. "Well, all right. Whatever your excuse, that's fine by me."

Night was settling over them by the time Angelo had had a good, long romp. Once Rinoa had gathered her up, the dog led them back towards the Garden, though with markedly less enthusiasm than she had on the way outside. The three returned indoors.

Rinoa's bedroom was one of three adjacent dorms of a single SeeD suite that she shared with Quistis and Selphie. The doors to each bedroom and that of a shared bathroom branched off a single common room, where a long table and a series of high-standing chairs provided a place for reading or study. As Rinoa set about fishing out her keys and unlocking the door to her room, it occurred to Squall that he had never once before entered a suite for female students or cadets. Sure, Rinoa had found her way to his former SeeD dorm a handful of times in the past—to wake him from his sleep and ask him for tours around the Garden—but never had such visits happened the other way around.

Rinoa fumbled about within her dark room, and a moment later the room was awash in cheery orange light from a single bedside lamp. She returned to close the door behind him.

"Have a seat," she told him with a convivial wave of her arm. There were only two options—the bed or a black swivel chair at the desk opposite the bed.

He opted for the chair.

As Squall was taking his seat, Rinoa moved to the bedside table, scooped up a battered old book, and slipped it into a drawer, out of sight. The action was a little odd, but Squall didn't dwell on it; she must just be tidying up, he decided. Rinoa sat down across from him, at the edge of the bed, and watched him with a small, patient smile.

_Now what?_ he demanded of himself with a touch of bitter reproach. Rinoa's companionship, her presence were what he'd needed, but now that he was here, he wasn't exactly sure what one did when visiting like this…other than simply sit there.

Squall felt something brush against his leg.

When he looked down, he found Angelo pressing a bone-shaped plush toy against his knee. Her jaws gave a quick, compulsive clamp, and the toy squeaked; she was watching Squall unwaveringly with beseeching brown eyes.

Rinoa laughed. "She wants you to play with her."

The toy squeaked again, and Angelo gave a soft, eager growl. Squall shot Rinoa an uncertain look, which made her laugh more.

"I'm sorry. I guess you haven't had much experience with pets…Here, all you have to do is take the toy from her and throw it across the room, then she'll bring it back."

When he pulled the toy from her jaws, Angelo stepped back and sat on her haunches, her gaze never leaving his hands. He tossed it to the corner of the room, and the dog closed the distance in a few paces and brought it straight back.

They repeated the game a few times as Rinoa watched on in amusement. "See, that's not so hard," she remarked. "And it's fun, isn't it? Don't even try to deny it."

Finally, when Angelo brought the toy back yet another time, she refused to let go. She ripped it from his hands, snarling and sending Rinoa into another fit of laughter at Squall's confusion.

"Tug-of-war! You're not supposed to let go. Pull back, don't just let her have it. That's not how the game works."

Squall glared at her sullenly. "I don't exactly have much experience with dogs—how am I supposed to tell if that's aggressive growling or not?"

"That's a play growl.—And look at how patient she is, waiting for you to figure out how it works. She's trying to let you learn. Just relax."

And, sure enough, Angelo was holding the stuffed toy at his knee again, growling merrily and wagging her tail, as if waiting for him to catch onto her game. Squall couldn't really understand the point, but as he and Rinoa's dog struggled and fought for the toy, he discovered that it was, actually, sort of enjoyable…somehow. Eventually, Angelo tired of their sport, abandoning the toy and retreating for her bed and a rawhide chew that sat within it.

"I think you enjoyed that," Rinoa said. She leaned over long enough to slip off her shoes, pulled herself back onto the bed, and situated herself sitting back against the wall at its head. "You should come by and do it more often—I know Angelo would like it."

Squall didn't answer, and his silence opened a lingering void. For a moment, Rinoa appeared lost in thought.

"You know," she declared suddenly, "you don't have to sit there."

There was only one other option, and he knew that, but he posed the question anyway. "Where else would I sit?"

"Over here."

"My boots—"

"Then take them off." Rinoa fixed him with a look that invited no further argument. She rose from her spot, closed the gap to her desk, and took his hands in hers. Then she gave his arms a light, but insistent, tug, her gaze never parting from his. Squall did as he was bid.

There was no distance then. She arranged herself against him, pressed close, with his arms draped around her and her head against his chest. He could feel the warmth of her through his clothes, and he filled his lungs with the scent of her—a gentle, floral scent, feminine and subtle and _her_. Their position, their closeness, and the sheer suddenness of it all were unaccustomed, but to his surprise, not at all unnatural. Within moments—despite his stubborn, awkward misgivings—Squall relaxed. How long had he wished to hold her this way, without reservation or hesitation? The last time they had been together like this…

_The Ragnarok._

He pushed the memory away. Even now, months apart from it, that recollection was still hard to face. It was not a place to which he wished to go, not now, not like this.

"Squall," Rinoa said against him, the sound of her voice seeping into his flesh, tender and succoring. "You don't have to hesitate to come here. I…just want to remind you that."

"I'll try to keep that in mind."

"Please do."

By the time he left, the skies outside her window had turned black, and Rinoa had grown drowsy and all the more difficult to part from.

"Sleep well," she told him, stopping him long enough to steal the lightest of kisses.

That night, Squall had no trouble sleeping.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>

As a brief disclaimer—the text for the Legend of Hyne is a translation from the version presented in Final Fantasy VIII Ultimania Omega, written by the game's scenario designer Kazushige Nojima. The translation is from a URL that I apparently cannot post on FFN at this point; I found it on the Final Fantasy Wikia, and it is therefore not my own.

For making this chapter possible, I'd like to thank my dear friend Emily for her thoughtful, selfless aid in editing this story, giving me advice, and supporting me along the way. She has spent years listening to me complain about how much I wished to write a Final Fantasy VIII story, and now that it is finally coming into existence, she has been an invaluable help. Thank you for all you do, Emily!


	7. Chapter VII

**Chapter VII**

Cold rains came to Balamb.

The storms blew in off the sea, chilled and stirred with boreal air off the Trabian snowfields. They blustered inland, only to be hung against the peaks and ridges of the island's Spine in their journey northwards. There, they seethed and howled, buffeting the Garden and the villages of the foothills with bitter fists of wind and sheets of chilly, stinging rain. Mornings were smothered in heavy gray fogs that wandered down from the mountains during the night; in the afternoons, the grounds were bogs of sodden leaves and mud as the showers drummed against the Garden's ceilings and windows; evenings were drizzly glooms.

It was a time to stay indoors.

And stay indoors she had—day after day after day, with only quick races outside every few hours to give Angelo a few minutes out-of-doors.

Rinoa gave a grateful sigh as a group of boisterous students gathered to leave. With the weather the way it was, the Garden's cadets were just as trapped as she was, each a victim to the vicious pandemic of cabin fever that scurried through the academy's halls. Even the library—which should have been a bastion of silence and solitude—wasn't spared. Students flocked to the shelves and tables under the pretense of studying, but homework sessions quickly disintegrated into gossip, flirting, and laughter. Rinoa, sitting at a solitary table in a far corner, had little choice but to weather the storm of chatter or otherwise find somewhere else to read.

She heard all manner of conversation from her isolated post, whether she wanted to or not. Even those spoken at a whisper pierced through her concentration and resounded there like the teeth-rattling toll of a guttural bell. Soon and quite against her will, Rinoa had learned who was interested in whom, what instructor assigned the most homework, which girls were the cattiest and which boys the cutest, the grades of countless students and their competency as soldiers, so on and so on.

And, to her surprise and dismay, she heard bits and pieces about herself as well.

"Hey," a girl had murmured a few days ago, sudden and intrusive. She had been sitting at a neighboring table separated by a few rows of bookshelves, speaking to her friends in a hushed voice that was still painfully clear to Rinoa. "Isn't that the Commander's girlfriend?"

A male voice had answered. "Yeah. I hear she comes here a lot."

"Guess she doesn't have much of anything to do, if she's in here all the time. I wonder why she even bothers staying at the Garden when she's not a student and doesn't have anything to do but sit around." The girl's voice again.

"For the Commander, obviously." His voice dropped a note, nearly inaudible. "Anyway, I hear she's—"

This time, a different student intervened in a hasty murmur. "Would you guys shut up—What if she can hear you?"

That had quieted his companions; but the whole exchange had more than disquieted Rinoa. No matter how many times she had tried to wipe the mulling thoughts from her mind since then, she still wondered what it was that the Garden's students said of her—and the notion was still unsettling.

With the peace left behind by the departure of the latest batch of noisy students, she returned to her book. A page before her was dominated by a photograph of crumbling statues in the ruins of a sandstone pavilion; and on the opposite page was the header _Sorceress Cults in Ancient Centra_. It was a historical period with which Rinoa was already becoming intimately familiar, as it was rapidly growing into one of her favorite topics in her studies.

The earliest Centran civilizations, the distant descendants of the Zebalga tribes—in a tradition that began even before the emergence of the First Centran Empire—placed sorceresses and their knights on a grand pedestal of veneration, surrounding them in myth and mystery and awe. Sorceresses were high priestesses and rulers with the men that served as their knights alongside them; though, as Rinoa now knew, the adoption of the term _knight_ had not appeared until the earliest stages of Galbadian feudalism, over a thousand years after the abolition of the last Centran cults.

Potential successors were chosen at childhood and entered into the cults in a strenuous series of rituals and rites. They were reared and trained anticipating inheritance, preparing mind and body for the acceptance and protection of a portion of Hyne's power. In their youth, they chose young men from among the members of the cults as lovers and lifelong partners, acolytes that had been initiated into the mysteries with a regimen and training all their own.

When a sorceress died, she would pass her powers to an apprentice she deemed most worthy, to a girl truly capable of harnessing and handling the power of the Sorcerer God. Her partner became her knight and guardian, protecting and serving her with his life and love and devotion. As there were only a handful of sorceresses at any given point, most of the women that were raised in the cults never acquired Hyne's power. Nevertheless, they and their acolytes remained in the temples to attend to the high priestesses as worshipers and devotees, eternally connected to their male partners in relationships that reflected the bond of sorceress and knight.

Sorceresses ruled or assisted in governance, depending on the societal structure that prevailed at any given period and place, and commoners esteemed them as goddesses and monarchs. Only occasionally did a rogue sorceress attempt to seize power, a venture that ended in failure more often than not. Pitted against her sister sorceresses and their knights, a rogue could rarely go far in any attempt at usurpation, and the penalty for doing so was always death, a forced abdication of power.

As Rinoa read, she came to a number of photographs and artists' illustrations, some displaying the remains of marble sculptures or the skeletal interiors of palaces, temples, altars, and monuments, others depicting ceremony and sacrifice. Sketches and paintings showed dignified women in bright, elegant, and revealing gowns, with proud, chiseled men in bronze breastplates and plumed helms standing next to them.

Other images flushed her cheeks and made her cast her gaze about her corner of the library to be certain that no one could see.

_The relationship between a Sorceress and her male Acolyte was sacred and revered among the Centran tribal civilizations,_ said the caption under one such picture of a temple fresco. _Cultic rites, religious ceremony, and worship observances sought to mimic and thereby honor the perfect, balanced union of masculine and feminine as represented by the high priestesses and their lifelong companions._

Rinoa's cheeks burned as she turned the page, though no one was around to see or notice what the page contained.

On the next page was a figure that was becoming quickly familiar to Rinoa, a sight that cooled her quickened pulse and struck her instead with a sense of pride and admiration: a dark-skinned woman with thick, flowing tresses and graceful white robes, poised and fierce and powerful. Sorceress Zafira: unifier of the thirteen tribes of Centra and founder of the First Centran Empire. There was an entire chapter dedicated to her life and her feats, but Rinoa had seen whole books written about her, such was her significance; she had a couple of them in her room, in fact, still waiting to be read.

Zafira was Kashkabaldi, born among hot desert sands during a period of unbridled conflict and boiling blood feuds. Though there had never been prolonged peace among the tribes of Centra, the violence of Zafira's youth was unprecedented. Lawlessness and gore reigned throughout the continent as each clan rose up against the others, each fending for themselves. Alliances were made and broken, enemies became friends and then became enemies once again. Even the cults had fragmented and split as each tribe vied for the support of the sorceresses and their followers.

As war raged, Zafira was orphaned during a raid on her village by a neighboring clan. With her parents and extended family slaughtered in the skirmish, she sought sanctuary in the only place she could: the cloister of a remote, peaceful sect of the Kashkabaldi cults under the tutelage of a sorceress and her knight that had refused to take sides in the conflict. There she remained for nearly a decade, absorbing the cult's teachings and serving the high priestess as an apprentice of the sect.

Yet even they could not escape the tide of battle and the lust for power that thundered across the Centran demesnes. When a host of warlords from the plains of Lolesterin destroyed their walls and overran their temple with a knightless sorceress at their backs, the temple's high priestess and her guardian were slain—and as the sorceress died, she passed her powers to her faithful attendant, Zafira.

As the temple's hallowed disciples were raped and massacred around her, the young sorceress stole away amid the chaos and rushed into the chill of the desert night. She caught a sturdy, fleet-footed desert steed that had fled from the ruins of the temple's stables, and rode into the darkness beyond her burning convent. She knew the dunes and oases of her homeland far better than the Lolesterian invaders, and thus slipped through their grasp and across the desert, never to be captured or claimed.

Upon reaching the coast, Zafira found passage on a ship bound for Yorn across the sea, where she intended to seek refuge in one of the sequestered, nigh-inaccessible temples of the towering, rugged Yornish Mountains. Instead, she landed in the court of one of the mountain princes, where every pale-skinned denizen of Yorn knew her to be a refugee of the Kashkabald tribes. Yet she was not met with hatred or animosity—the young lord from whom she pleaded hospitality and protection fell in love with her, and she with him.

Lord Arsalan had set his subjects to mining the mountain passes of his vale as he gathered a mighty army to defend his lands from the wars that pressed down on him. He armed his men with iron and steel instead of the bronze of the other Centran tribes, and his warriors seated tall, spirited horses with leather saddles and stirrups to give them balance and leverage in combat. Meantime, with Arsalan's support, Zafira traveled to mountain villages, tending to the poor and sick, healing and feeding and caring for them with the skills she had learned as a priestess of the cult of the Sorcerer God's Descendants. In the name of the Yornish prince, she inspected the conditions of the ore mines, ensuring that the working situations were the finest that they could be and that the families of the miners lived in comfort and security with all their needs provided.

As Arsalan assembled his forces and his flourishing armies crushed every host that threatened Yorn, Zafira confided in him, revealing to him the fragment of Hyne's power that manifested and grew within her. They both knew that her magic joined to his strength would be enough to conquer Centra in its entirety, but that was not what the young sorceress desired. Instead, she fell to her knees before the prince of Yorn and begged that they use their strength for good, for peace instead of for bloodshed.

According to the accounts of many legends, upon discovering the truth of his beloved, Arsalan took her hands and pulled her to her feet, then went to one knee before her, reversing their positions. He pledged himself as her guardian and servant, beseeched her to accept him as her husband and knight, and swore to honor her wishes. Zafira was named princess of Yorn, cherished and celebrated by Arsalan's subjects for her selfless deeds of charity and kindness.

The sorceress and her prince husband rode from Yorn with a fraction of their army, leaving the remainder as a garrison to defend the mountains, forests, valleys, and foothills of Arsalan's lands. Though the hosts of the other Centran warlords were often larger, Yorn's own was swift and disciplined, a grand war machine with precise, efficient tactics and superior arms. Victory was always theirs.

However, as they marched from region to region, Zafira and Arsalan preached peace instead of battle. To Centran kings and queens and generals, they extended an offer: lay down arms and vow fealty to a Centran nation commanded by Zafira and Arsalan, and Yorn would become their allies and protectors. If not, their forces would be crushed, their sovereignty overthrown and nullified, and their subjects integrated into a greater Centran domain. Those that acquiesced received what was promised to them: vassalage to the new Centran emperors and an end to war. Those that rebelled were defeated, their serfs assimilated into the expanding realm.

Despite Zafira's best intentions, their campaign was conquest, takeover, invasion—and yet it _was_ peace.

Soon they were joined by warriors and leaders of other clans, men and women that wished to bring their peoples into the peace and security of the unified Centran nation. Among these, the most important were Lord Cirrus of the Alnaj Sultanate of Lower Centra, and Lady Beatrix of the seafaring peoples of the Kingdom of Lenown. Alnaj and Lenown were notorious as bitter, unforgiving enemies, with quarrels that dated back centuries prior. The bloodshed between the two was among the worst Centra had endured; thus, Cirrus and Beatrix came before the prince and princess of Yorn as brutal rivals.

Cirrus was a famed warrior in his homeland, but had been exiled for defying the Sultan; Beatrix was heir to the Lennite monarchy, seeking an alliance with Yorn that would spare her country from the onslaughts of both Alnaj and Lolesterin. Their enmity did not last long. In their service to the sorceress and her knight, the two became lovers, inseparable and unfaltering. They rose to the highest posts in the Yornish military, with Cirrus as Lord General of the army and Beatrix as Lady Admiral of the burgeoning navy; they became Zafira and Arsalan's closest advisors, protectors, and friends.

Soon, Zafira's convoy was no longer purely of Yorn. Sailors and archers, infantry and cavalry, priestesses and acolytes defected from their clans and joined her cause. The eclectic leadership represented the unity of the Centran tribes to which they aimed, and inspired the common people to answer their calls for concord. Zafira of Kashkabald and Arsalan of Yorn, Beatrix of Lenown and Cirrus of Alnaj: the people flocked to them, recognizing that they represented the harmony of Centra rather than the martial interests of Yorn alone. Armies fell before them; knightless sorceresses met defeat and death, forced to pass up their power to Zafira herself; partnered sorceresses and their knights joined and supported them. At first, the realm spanned all of Upper Centra. From there, Zafira and Arsalan sailed to the Isles of Poccahari and brought the archipelagoes under their rule, and afterwards, onwards to land armies upon the coasts of Beatrix's Lenown and confront the expanse of Lower Centra.

For years they traveled, battling and marshaling support and bringing law and imperial peace to the broken, bleeding tribes. Their journey ended in Kashkabald, where, for Zafira, the voyage had begun.

With the thirteen nations united beneath their rule, Sorceress Zafira and Lord Arsalan set about bringing prosperity to their people. They built magnificent, fortified cities and raised new temples. They cultivated once-scorched lands, reaped the bounties of the rich Centran seas, and mined the steel of Yorn and the gold of Alnaj. For as long as the two lived, there was peace and plenty in Centra, and for centuries after their rule, the cults of the Centran Empires elevated and sanctified Lady Zafira and Lord Arsalan to the level of goddess and god, with Lady Beatrix and Lord Cirrus as their holy, steadfast disciples.

Rinoa slipped a bookmark between the pages and closed the book, softly, almost lovingly. She sat back in the stiff wooden desk chair and allowed her gaze to absently climb the wall before her.

She was enchanted.

Why had she never heard the story before delving into her new research? It was a critical moment of history, a turning point that would impact the world forever afterwards: the foundations of the First Centran Empire. And yet, in most historical texts that she had read, the establishment of the Empire was taken for granted, accepted as a given that merited no explanation or analysis. Most scholars, from what Rinoa had read, dismissed the tale as merely legend. They brushed it aside as a fabricated, arrogant, mythological fable of self-glorification on the part of the ruling classes of Centra, intended to distract the masses of imperial citizens from rampant ethnic tensions and ensure the submission and subjugation of the Centran peasantry.

Rinoa, however, could not believe that that was true.

Legend or not, why also was the tale—which was so prevalent in her readings on sorceresses—never taught or shared elsewhere? She knew she would have loved the story in her childhood, had she heard it: a brave, gentle princess and her bold, loyal prince bringing peace to the world alongside their faithful companions. There _had_ been a few good sorceresses that she had encountered in her girlhood, namely a handful of princess-sorceresses and their knights in Medieval Galbadia. There had even been a film about one such pair, although the sorceress, her knight, and a battle with a red dragon were all that Rinoa remembered of it.

Mostly, however, the sorceresses of childhood yarns had been wicked and cruel. They were dread-inducing threats from parents: _Be a good girl, or else a sorceress may come and snatch you away in your sleep. They cook up little children to use in their potions and spells, and they especially like sweet girls like you._ They were tyrants and monsters, like Sorceress Adel of that distant land that had been at war with her country well before she was born. Or they were witches, like the sinister, shadowy women that lived outside the laws and mores of the Holy Dollet Empire, eternally shrouded in superstition and mystery.

Sorceresses had always been evil creatures to be feared and despised, never noble, never honored, never benevolent wardens of innocent people and guardians of peace.

_How, then, could Edea as an open, professed sorceress gain control of Galbadia under Ultimecia's possession, when that is all we are ever told of sorceresses?_ Rinoa wondered, but did not, could not follow the line of thought farther than that. She yawned.

Such crushing fatigue always appeared in mid-afternoon, smashing against her with all the stealth and strength of a wave surging into a bay: a ripple beneath the surface before breaking with a crash on a rocky shore. Rinoa lifted a hand to rub her eyes, certain that there were heavy dark lines beneath them.

She had not slept through a full night in weeks. Even her naps were fitful and agitated, as if her mind could never quite calm itself. During the days she was haggard and exhausted, hardly able to hold her eyes open throughout the afternoon. Yet in the black of night, Rinoa lay awake and alert, graced only at times by a shallow, restive slumber.

Of late, memories besieged her, hovering above her with a wraithlike secrecy and gripping her with white, bony fingers. As creeping physical torments swelled into her flesh, she remembered—a battle against Edea to the brink of death; suspended months of dormancy and agony; waking to the pale sparkle of unfathomable stars, to nothingness, to the raw, hollow taste of despair. She remembered fault and shame, terror and desolation, panic and defeat. Only rarely could she remind herself of the beauty of a selfless sacrifice, comfort, the staunch devotion of an oath; and it was at those times only that Rinoa could find rest.

She decided that it must be normal for traumatic, repressed memories to resurface after a time. Her friends probably endured the same, she was willing to wager—and they most certainly never complained of it. So she resolved to stand against the battering surf until the tide ebbed again, as she was certain it inevitably would.

Unable to refocus on her reading, Rinoa gathered up her book and left the library for her dorm. She fetched Angelo and walked her through the murky wall of an afternoon mist, then returned inside for a steaming shower and an attempt at rest. Before settling onto her bed, she fumbled with the radio on her desk, searching for a station with some tranquil offering that would help ease her busy mind and lull her into slumber.

Radios had never been a presence in her lifetime, only an occasional, awkward _privilege_—if one could call it that—that rarely functioned and performed very little. They had suddenly, inexplicably ceased to work shortly before her birth, and despite the efforts of mechanics and inventors and scientists, they had mostly continued to refuse to work forever afterwards. Since then, other methods for instant mass communication had developed, none of them wireless, and many of them utterly, unshakably unreliable.

Now that Esthar's walls had opened and the truths of Estharian technology had been revealed to the wider world, many posited that Adel's tomb had somehow caused the nearly two-decades-long radio interference—and soon enough Estharian scientists admitted, albeit reluctantly, that that was more than likely true. Since then, radios had experienced a rapid revival, with new stations, new music, and new reports blossoming like wildflowers in the sunlight of a spring meadow.

When the tender lilt of strings in a chamber orchestra drifted from the speakers, Rinoa edged back onto her bed and curled up under a blanket. The room was monochrome in the afternoon drear and beneath the music she could hear a trickle of water. She closed her eyes and tried to doze.

Suspended somewhere between waking and dreaming, she heard the mutterings of a reporter in place of music. _Discontent in Galbadia over recently signed treaty,_ he said. _Groups protest in the streets in front of the former Presidential Residence of Deling City. Numbers small; movement labeled nationalist and extremist. _

Her drowsing imagination gave it life: a knot of protesters with pickets bearing nationalist slogans, decrying the corruption and conspiracy of world leaders, extoling Galbadian might, squirming like unearthed larvae beneath the iron gates of a past and glorified despot.

_Military Tribunal continues, President of Balamb to testify._

Seifer sitting behind a table in a courtroom, she imagined, a microphone thrust into his face, grave and condemned and aged beyond his years.

_Lunar monsters breach the borders of Esthar, attacks on Trabian towns, sightings at Fisherman's Horizon. Esthar in trade and defense talks with Balamb, Dollet, and Galbadia to ease the severity of its economic woes. _

_Lunar monsters_. Her sleep-heavy mind careened—she remembered a ruby pillar, a glistening spear through the blackness, roaring and inconceivable. There was blind panic, a terror she had never known, the certainty of death. She tumbled through the chasm, fighting to gain control of her own limbs, desperate to grasp who she was and what she'd done, but recognizing the moment only as her last.

But the arms that had encircled her as that red, writhing lance had tumbled to the earth had not been those of death, but those of her savior. _He didn't leave me,_ she told herself, slipping away, allowing the reporter's voice to grow hazy in her consciousness. _He came for me._

She floated, at last, into the cradle of slumber.

* * *

><p>Certain things started to annoy her.<p>

Certain things. Little things. Things that should not have annoyed her. Things so picayune, so miniscule that she was shamed by the very idea that they bothered her at all. But that shame, in turn, caused her even more annoyance, spiraling her ever-downward into a whirling, inveterate gorge of irritability and daily self-destruction.

The Garden, for one, and everything it entailed.

Her standard-issue dorm, its white walls and its plainness, its confinement. Its dearth of belongings, of adornment, those marks of personalized human materialism that would make it at least feel like her own. Its nagging prickle of eternal impermanence, temporariness. A community of which she was not a part, in which she had never belonged.

The shared suite—items of Selphie's crawling out into the common room, cluttering the table or finding their way onto the floor. The slam of the door in the mornings as Quistis left early for meetings and deskwork, the _click-click-click_ of her heels as she strode off, jerking Rinoa out of light but hard-won sleep. The hallways and the students that traversed them; the tracking, critically curious glimpses that insisted on chasing her as she went about her usual, unexciting tasks. The chatter in the library and the pitiless straight-backed chairs, the blandness of the cafeteria's food, the colorless familiarity of the paths on which she led Angelo numerous times each day.

Then there was the weather: drab and rainy and muttering threats of winter, growing colder by the day. The shortening of the days, dawn arriving too late and dusk arriving too soon, heightening her sense that her day never really started, that she passed her time in a perpetual state of groggy fatigue.

And there was, of course, the most grating and persistent of her frustrations—she simply had nothing to do.

Even reading had become a bane. Within three weeks, she gradually—though without ever consciously intending to do so—stuffed away all literature dealing with sorceresses in favor of page-turners and historical novels, when she read at all. Some of her research had been riveting, gripping, even heartening in its promise of entry into a rare and sacred sisterhood. Most, however, had plunged her into places she did not want to go: down black, winding tunnels that grew more sinister and dank with each descending turn. The glowing torches that had at first guided her had sputtered out, coughing smoke and leaving her in yawning, tar-dark caves. Soon enough, she put her books aside. If she did not think of them, she decided, perhaps they would go away on their own.

Otherwise, there was little activity with which to occupy her days.

In an effort to revitalize herself, to keep herself going, Rinoa tried structuring her time around a self-enforced schedule. She set her alarm to rouse her sometime after Quistis and Selphie had left for their jobs, walked with Angelo, had breakfast, and exercised in late-morning when the students were guaranteed to be in class and out of the fitness rooms and gym. She thought the physical activity would waken and energize her, giving her fresh starts to the day. Typically, though, it didn't do much. Then she showered, joined her friends for lunch when they were available, and afterwards, well…figured out how to fill her afternoons, somehow.

She knew that she was stuck in a rut, but was at a loss as to how to scrabble back out.

_What exactly did you expect?_ she demanded of herself on a particularly miserable afternoon spent in her room. _All that action and adventure couldn't last forever. Real life had to happen again sooner or later._

True, her year with the Forest Owls and the subsequent year-and-a-half tossed on the gales and storm-churned waters of a global war had had their trials and troubles. But her mind had reconstructed that time into a glorified notion of "the good old days"in the way that only nostalgia and the safeties of retrospect could manage.

Yet even when she put aside her self-deprecation, she was left with the strange, unpleasant aftertaste of the unanswered question: What _had_ she expected?

A peaceful world, conducive and responsive to her every wanton wish and whim? Spending time with her new friends and discovering with them a boundless sandbox of unfettered, carefree youth? The sudden disappearance of what she was becoming, as if Edea's relinquishment had never happened? A happily-ever-after with Squall?

It was all absurd, Rinoa told herself. The fancies of a child, too naïve to know how the real world worked.

She bit her bottom lip and pretended not to feel the swelling in her throat, fiddling instead with the computer console on her desk for what little entertainment it could provide and to lure her mind away. Some of those things she had, in fact, wished to happen. In some form or another.

On the first truly cold morning of the season, late in the month, Selphie departed for Trabia Garden. The grey-white clouds broke away from one another long enough to permit a sliver of pale sunlight as the delegation was preparing to leave. Luggage was stacked into the trunks of Garden cars; final orders were given and more official documentation was bestowed; hugs and goodbyes were exchanged—and a swift, not-so-clandestine kiss between Selphie and Irvine.

The contingent to Trabia would not be returning for a few weeks, utilizing whatever time its members needed to complete their assignments. Selphie, despite the prospect of a prolonged absence, beamed. Swallowed by a down parka appropriate for the northernmost Trabian tundras, the young officer—and head of the delegation—radiated eagerness and excitement, outwardly ready to tackle her mission head-on and wrestle it to the ground. Rinoa felt herself grinning as she heard Selphie's conclusive "Yes sir!" to her Commander and saw the snappy salute that followed. Even Squall appeared satisfied with the reception of his commands, his arms crossed over his chest and a thoughtful, appreciative set to his brow as the assembled group watched their friends and colleagues disappear into the vans.

Rinoa joked that Selphie's enthusiasm had somehow caused the ray of autumn sun that greeted her departure. It was only fitting. After all that the decimated, grieving academy had been through, a spark of hope was only fair.

And as if in answer to that suspicion, the heavens returned to slate that afternoon and for days afterwards, just as they had been before.

Without Selphie's presence to fill the space, the SeeD suite turned empty and unfriendly, bereft of its most lively occupant. Quistis was still around, of course, but not with Selphie's frequency and never with her glow. A certain glimmer drained away. There was less laughter, less banter, less warmth. The quirks and idiosyncrasies that had worn on Rinoa's nerves just days before quickly grew endearing, missed. And within the span of two days, Rinoa was more lonely and morose than ever.

Quistis had snatches of time here and there, the breaks in between her many obligations; mostly, though, she was tied up with the same demands that devoured Squall's days. Zell had instructor training, corresponding homework, and an increasing amount of time devoted to courting—or, perhaps more accurately, being courted by—a cadet from the Library Committee, a detail about which he was always evasive. Irvine had thrown himself into his work, presumably to keep his mind off Selphie's absence.

And Squall was Squall.

Even with Rinoa regularly going out of her way to ensure they spent time together, Squall remained the most difficult of all her companions to track down. Irvine promptly hit a period of poorly-concealed despondency without Selphie, and Zell spent untold hours slipping off to the quad or into Balamb for dates with his infatuated wooer. Yet Squall—who, according to the students, at least, was supposedly Rinoa's boyfriend—was stubbornly elusive and unapproachable…almost, she imagined, as if he did not care.

Mornings and afternoons were out of the question, often even on the weekends. That left evenings for visits, the snippets of time after his daily training, the leftovers of his day in the late hours shortly before he retired for bed. And even those only sometimes—often, she would arrive to find no answer at his door.

That old saying: one step forward, two steps backwards. Sometimes three. That was progress with Squall.

Rinoa reflected on that one evening as she stared out the window of his study at glowering nightfall and the watery smears of lights and lamps around the Garden. With an open book balanced on her knees and the murmur of the radio in the background, she found herself thinking of Selphie and Irvine on the morning the delegation left for Trabia. The kiss the couple had shared replayed itself in her mind's eye. A simple union: swift, unhidden, and natural. A well-practiced and open affection, casual yet potent in its normalcy. Something that required no thought or second-guessing, an act that simply sprang from the moment. Something that neither would overlook—or wish to have overlooked—when saying their goodbyes.

Trying not to look at Squall, Rinoa instead eyed her hands resting in her lap. When was the last time they had shared a kiss? Not the pecks she sometimes gave him in parting, the brush of lips against his cheek or her more daring, glancing attempts at his own lips. A real kiss.

It had been that night at the party. The entire Garden celebrating, war at its end, the two of them surrounded by friends, yet wrapped up solely in one another. That evening when victory's euphoria had turned the ravaged world beautiful and had made inhibition seem trifling, foolish. When the press of stars and the hovering moon had glittered on crystal waves, intoxicating them with the cosmic play that had first brought them together over a year beforehand. The repeat of a ritual—their ritual—had run a natural course, reached a natural conclusion, a shared moment of passion—and had then been broken with sudden exclamations and laughter.

She had laughed, too. Drawing a step away from him, jokingly scolding their friends and the intrusive camera they carried. Though Squall had not laughed, there had been traces of mirth, his expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and amusement.

Yet there had been no repeat. Not that evening, not at any point afterwards, three months later. The moment had come, and it had gone.

What had happened? she wondered. Where had they gone wrong? Has she pushed him too far? Or had he withdrawn when she had not pushed enough? The uncertainty tasted bitter and all she could do was fight to swallow it back.

A glimpse found him on the other side of the room, leaned over his desk and reading some folder of documents. Rinoa looked back down at her hands, at the lines of black print on white paper below them. The radio droned in the periphery of her consciousness like the buzz of an insistent insect.

"—Rinoa? …Rinoa?"

She jolted awake. How long had she been asleep? The room was darker than she remembered, and at some point her book had slid to the floor.

Squall stood by the end of the couch. He made an apologetic gesture towards the doorway. "I'm heading to bed now…"

Rinoa nodded and leaned down to gather her book.

"Good night," he said as she passed him on her way out of the study.

"Night."

The door was ajar and she was just stepping out when she heard him speak again.

"Rinoa, is…something wrong?"

She froze and felt her stomach drop. In the moment that it took to turn back to face him, she struggled to craft an answer and to mask the truth from her expression.

"I'm fine. Why?"

Squall studied the floor, his gaze never meeting hers. "You seem…I don't know." The longer the pause stretched, the more anxiety grew within her. All Rinoa could do was clench her jaw against a sudden onslaught of emotion, to beat down and lock away all the things she really wanted to say to him.

"Nevermind," he concluded at last.

That should have ended the conversation. But she lingered in the doorway, grasping for words but pleading with herself for a quick exit. Internally, she berated herself fiercely, torn between leaving and telling him the truth, between resenting him and resenting herself.

"Sorry. I'm just tired." That was all she could muster. When Squall lifted his eyes, she found them doubtful and uncertain. "Don't worry about it. Really." She forced a smile that she knew must look weak, pathetic, and painfully transparent.

Yet he did not venture farther. "All right," was all he said.

Released from his questions, Rinoa bid Squall a second goodbye, and returned for another night in the confines of her dorm.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

I am very sorry for the incredibly long delay on this chapter. The list of excuses is extensive and not really worth recounting; suffice it to say that I've been busy. I can't make any solid promises about when Chapter VIII will be coming along, but at the very least, I will try not to take as much time to finish it as I did for this chapter.

I wanted to take a moment to respond to a review from last time around by user rach981. I really appreciate your comments and want to assure you that, no, I don't think they're weird at all—quite the contrary, in fact. I don't want to give too much away, but let's just say that you may be heading in exactly the direction that I want you to be. (: So keep speculating!

Thank you to all that read and review and thank you for sticking with this story.


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